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O N O 


♦ « 



























The Works of Mrs. Gaskell 


Iknuteforfc JE&ttion 


EIGHT VOLUMES 


n/ i. Mary Barton 5. My Lady Ludlow 

2 . Cranford v 6. Sylvia’s Lovers 

V 3. Ruth 7. Cousin Phillis 

4. North and South 8. Wives and Daughters 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
New York 


London 


tmutstora EOttion 


THE WORKS 

JJ3JJ3AO OF 

noi;;c3 

MRS. GASKELL 

aa-MUJov THv>ia 

IN EIGHT VOLUMES 

2i3VoJ 3'sivl^g .d hfo^aciO .s 

With a General Biographical Introduction, and 
a Critical Introduction to Each Volume. 

BY 

DR. A. W. WARD 

Master of Peterhouse, Cambridge 

WHO HAS RECEIVED THE KIND ASSISTANCE OF THE 


MISSES GASKELL 


“Mrs. Gaskell has done what neither I nor other female 
writers in France can accomplish — she has written novels 
which excite the deepest interest in men of the world, and 
yet which every girl will be the better for reading.” 


GEORGE SAND, 




IRnutsforfc E&ttion 


RUTH 


• b\; % 

MRS. GASKELL 


To which have been added 

Cumberland Sheep-Shearers — Bessy’s Troubles at Home — 
Modern Greek Songs— Company Manners — Hand and Heart 


WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

DR. A. W. WARD 

Master of Peterhouse, Cambridge 


NEW YORK: G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
LONDON: SMITH, ELDER, & CO. 

1906 


tfSSK* 

Pub 

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LIBW»wv <‘KfN0fmSS 

OCT 8 1906 

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OOPt B 


Copyright, igo6 

BY 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
(For Introduction) 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Introduction xi 

RUTH— 


CHAPTER 


I. 

The Dressmaker’s Apprentice at Work . 

. 

1 

II. 

Ruth goes to the Shire-hall . 

. 

11 

III. 

Sunday at Mrs. Mason’s .... 

. 

31 

IV. 

Treading in Perilous Places . 

. 

44 

V. 

In North Wales 

. 

61 

VI. 

Troubles gather about Ruth . 

. 

69 

VII. 

The Crisis — Watching and Waiting 

. 

79 

VIII. 

Mrs. Bellingham “Does the thing handsomely” 

87 

IX. 

The Storm-spirit subdued 

. 

98 

X. 

A Note, and the Answer .... 

. 

102 

XI. 

Thurstan and Faith Benson . 

. 

108 

XII. 

Losing Sight of the Welsh Mountains . 

. 

122 

XIII. 

The Dissenting Minister’s Household . 

. 

133 

XIV. 

Ruth’s First Sunday at Eccleston . 

. 

145 

XV. 

Mother and Child 


154 

XVI. 

Sally tells of her Sweethearts, and discourses 

on the Duties of Life 163 


V 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 


PAGE 

Leonard’s Christening 176 

Ruth becomes a Governess in Mr. Bradshaw’s 

Family . . . . . . . 189 

After Five Years 199 

Jemima refuses to be managed .... 213 

Mr. Farquhar’s Attentions transferred . . 234 

The Liberal Candidate and his Precursor . . 249 

Recognition 264 

The Meeting on the Sands 287 

Jemima makes a Discovery ..... 304 

Mr. Bradshaw’s Virtuous Indignation . . . 324 

Preparing to stand on the Truth . . . 338 

An Understanding between Lovers . . . 360 

Sally takes her Money out of the Bank . . 373 

The Forged Deed 386 

An Accident to the Dover Coach . . . 403 

The Bradshaw Pew again occupied . . . 412 

A Mother to be proud of 419 

“I MUST GO AND NURSE Mr. BELLINGHAM” . . 427 

Out of Darkness into Light 440 

The End 445 


CUMBERLAND SHEEP-SHEARERS . 
MODERN GREEK SONGS . 
COMPANY MANNERS .... 
BESSY’S TROUBLES AT HOME 
HAND AND HEART . 

vi 


455 

471 

491 

514 

536 


1 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


The “Abermouth” Sands 


Frontispiece 


✓ 


From a water-colour drawing by M. G. (1861). 


The Vale of Ffestiniog .... To face page xxii 
After an engraving , from a drawing by David Cox. 




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INTRODUCTION TO “RUTH,” ETC. 

Ruth , Mrs. Gaskell’s second larger work in order of 
publication, first appeared in three volumes in January, 
1853. It was republished in 1855, both in England and 
in America; and a French translation of the book came 
out in 1856. This version was from the hands of the 
daughters of Guizot, who cherished the deepest admira- 
tion for the original — *‘je ne connais point de roman ,” 
he wrote from Val Richer, a few years later, “ qui m ’ 
ait emu aussi profondement que Ruth ” 

The enquiry may seem superfluous how Mrs. Gaskell 
came to choose the name bestowed by her upon the 
heroine of a story into which she put a great deal of her 
heart and upon that story itself.- For Ruth is not only 
(as the wily Mr. Donne was quite aware when he called 
the fact in question) , a common enough English Christian 
name, but it is a very beautiful one, possessed of an 
ineffaceable idyllic charm. Yet it is difficult to escape 
the fancy that the choice of it was suggested to Mrs. 
Gaskell by a masterpiece of tragic pathos which must 
in any case have been known to her as the production 
of a poet much read by her — Crabbe’s story of Ruth , 
in the Tales of the Hall — her familiarity with which is 
attested by special evidence.* This story and Mrs. 
Gaskell’s novel differ widely from each other in both 
substance and tone; but to the chief figure of the prose 

*In Crabbe’s Ruth is to be found the incident of the press- 
gang, which reappears, though in different circumstances and 
surroundings, in Sylvia's Lovers . 


IX 


Introduction 


tale, hardly less saddening in its total effect than the 
poem, though irradiated by a stronger light of hope, 
the piteous words of the poem also apply — 

“Thus my poor Ruth was wretched and undone, 

Nor had a husband for her only son, 

Nor had he father.” 

Of far greater interest than the question of the mere 
title of this novel is that of its moral significance, for 
it would be idle to ignore the fact that such a significance 
and purpose its writer intended it to possess. I will defer 
for the moment what it seems necessary to say as to a 
particular, but after all not essential, feature of ( the story 
— the concealment of poor Ruth’s sin by her passing 
as a widow, which has given rise to a great deal of 
adverse comment, For it seems to me of paramount 
importance to ask in the first instance whether or not the 
book as a whole altogether missed its aim. 

This aim was certainly not to make a considerable 
number of more or less excellent people extremely 
uncomfortable. There appear to have been a number 
of critics (among them some to whose good or ill nature 
there went very little power of articulate expression), 
who regarded Ruth with unmitigated disfavour as 
exposing a social evil over which decent people prefer 
to cast a veil. This evil, of course, was or is the laxity 
of moral principle condoning such a wrong as that in 
which Ruth’s lover led her to participate. To the cruel 
though passive force of such a censure of her book 
Mrs. Gaskell could only oppose the consciousness of a 
grave and high purpose; yet it must have encouraged 
her unspeakably to be assured of a recognition of this 
purpose by many who were on this occasion united by 
no general uniformity of opinions, but by that higher 
consensus which rarely fails to unite noble minds on 


“ Ruth,” etc. 

great moral issues. Several letters have been preserved 
that show how a sympathy of this sort had been called 
forth by Ruth, and by its courageous exposure of a 
foul blot on the scutcheon of our social system. 

Mrs. Jameson, the story of whose life, as well as the 
list of her writings, reveals a deeper nature than her 
facile pen always succeeded in bringing home to her 
readers, wrote of her gratitude for the solace and delight 
which Ruth had afforded her personally. “I hope,” 
she said, ‘‘I do understand your aim — you have lifted 
up your voice against ‘that demoralising laxity of 
principle, ’ which I regard as the ulcer lying round the 
roots of Society; and you have done it wisely and well, 
with a mingled courage and delicacy which excite at 
once my gratitude and my admiration.” Charles 
Kingsley, premising characteristically, and with a due 
admixture of paradox, that he had 

“read only a little (though of course I know the story) of the 
book; for the same reason that I cannot read “ Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin,” or ' Othello,” or “The Bride of Lammermoor ” — it is 
too painfully good, as I found before I had read half the volume,” 

continued his praise in a tone of real sincerity: 

‘ ‘ But this I can tell you : that among all my large acquaintance 
I never heard but one unanimous opinion as to the beauty and 
righteousness of the book; and that, above all, from real Ladies , 
and really good women. If you could have heard the things 
which I have heard spoken of it this evening by a thorough 
high-church fine lady of the world — and by her daughter too, 
as pure and pious a soul as man need see — you would have no 
more doubt than I have, that whatsoever the ‘Snobs’ and the 
Bigots may think, English people in general have but one opinion 
of ‘ Ruth,’ and that is one of utter satisfaction. I doubt not that 
you have had this said to you already often. . . . Believe me, 
you may have it said to you as often as you will by the purest 
and most refined of English women. May God bless you, and 


xi 


Introduction 

help you to write many more great books as you have already 
written. ...” 

And when, according to the testimony of his wife, 
Archdeacon Hare 

‘‘heard that your virtuous friends had burnt ‘ Ruth,’ after an 
exclamation of horror, he quieted down with the remark. 
‘Well, the Bible has been burnt, and many' other precious books 
have met with the same fate, which yet have done their work. ’ ” 

Cobden, who “blessed the authoress, as he closed her 
book, for her courage and humanity”; good Sir William 
Fairbairn, whom some of us can still remember in full 
intellectual vigour though at an advanced old age, 
read it “with all the enthusiasm of a young man of 
twenty in place of one that has numbered a year or two 
above sixty.” The applause of staunch friends such as 
Dickens, John Forster, and Charlotte Bronte (who 
thought that her friend’s “style had never risen higher”) 
was not wanting ; but it was in a strain of mystic fervour 
that expression was given to his gratitude by yet another 
friend, the influence of whose teaching was strong upon 
her as upon many of the most high-minded of her con- 
temporaries. In a note to one of his Lectures on the 
Unity of the New Testament (1854), Frederick Denison 
Maurice discusses the difficult words forming the earlier 
half of the last verse of Chapter II. of the First Epistle 
of St. Paul to Timothy; and he concludes: “I desire to 
thank a noble-hearted and pure-minded writer of our 
day for the courage with which she has illustrated the 
doctrine, ” promulgated in the words in question, “in the 
story of one of her sex who had fallen into evil. I allude 
to the beautiful tale of Ruth , which on this point and on 
all others is, I think, as true to human experience as it 
is to the divinest morality.” Maurice sent the “rather 

xii 


“Ruth,” etc. 

formidable volume” containing this eloquent passage 
to Mrs. Gaskell, partly that he might confess his “ rather 
strange allusion.” Both Mrs. Gaskell and he have had 
their reward; for the principle enunciated in Ruth, that 
in the love of the child is to be found a redeeming 
power of incomparable strength, has come to be re- 
garded as an axiom in rescue work. 

At a later date Mrs. Gaskell must again have been 
deeply gratified by hearing from her friend Miss Hilary 
Bonham-Carter that Miss Nightingale had said of 
Ruth: “It is a beautiful work, and I like it better still 
than when I first read it.” She added the characteristic 
approving comment that Mrs. Gaskell “had not made 
Ruth start at once as a hospital nurse, but arrive at 
it after much other nursing that came first.” 

In addition to these tributes there was one which I 
should like to quote at length, because it was very much 
prized by Mrs. Gaskell. It was from Mrs. Stanley 
the wife of the Bishop of Norwich, and the mother 
of Dean Stanley, whose literary memorial of both his 
parents is well known. 

“ 6 Grosvenor Crescent, 

“March 12th, 1853. 

“My dear Mrs. Gaskell, 

“I have been intending to write to you this month past. 
Partly I delayed because I wished to collect more average 
opinion about “Ruth”; and latterly it seemed so much as if 
there was but one opinion about it, that I thought you could not 
want my assurance of it. The thing that has given me much sat- 
isfaction is the testimony borne by men — young men — to its 
truth and beauty; and, moreover, that they were touched, 
interested, and could not conceive that any one could think other- 
wise than themselves — that it was the most virtue-stirring 
book they ever read. Evidently sensible of the pure atmosphere 

xiii 


Introduction 

of it, Lord Stanley (my nephew) sat up till two o’ clock reading 
it; and the only objection he made was that he thought it un- 
natural to carry Mr. Donne’s hardness of heart so far as the 
last scene does. Dr. and Mrs. Vaughan at Harrow thought it 
perfect, touching. ... I feel quits sure that your object will 
be gained; that you have started new views, new feelings, new 
thoughts upon the subject which will tell in more ways than 
one knows. . . . And now shall I tell you what I thought 
the master-stroke of the book? The very part that Lord 
Stanley objected to — that very hardening of Mr. Donne’s heart 
against the last scene. It took me by surprise. I expected 
differently, but I recognised at once the truth — the all-important 
and awful truth — that hardened- hearts do not soften — no, not 
‘if one came to them from the dead.’ And this finishing stroke 
to that most finished portrait of the species is complete in its 
impression, and casts away from under one’s feet the hope that 
the day of change will come at last. The gradual proofs of her 
becoming more sensible of her sin as she advances further in 
goodness is beautiful. About the child, I have an instance 
under my own eye at this moment of the reverse of the picture 
— of the child being the misery, the clog, the disgrace — that is 
the common view, and belongs to the common feeling. That 
yours is the higher, the nobler, the regenerating principle I 
have no doubt. . . . You may well be content with the good 
you will have done in awakening the sense of what may and ought 
to come out of the darkest depths, and that many who will 
have been startled at first will end by having an impression 
left on their minds which you would feel yourself rewarded by. 
I have a firm conviction in the omnipotence of Truth; and that 
such a picture of such a human being as Ruth will have a per- 
manent influence. Those two scenes on the sands are of thrilling 
interest, and the exact degree in which her early love and her 
later disesteem struggle one sees quite distinctly. I confess 
that dear Mr. Benson’s suffering was very great — the desertion 
of the chapel, and the lost influence of his character ; but I wish 
it could have been arranged in any other way; it is a beautiful 
picture nevertheless. Sally is inimitable; and Mr. Bradshaw. 
The description of the chapel brought the old chapel on Adam’s 
Hill at Knutsford before me — the diamond-paned windows, 
overshadowing tree, and outside steps. . . . And so with many 


xiv 


“Ruth,” etc. 

thanks for my share in the beauty and interest of the book, 
and my warm wishes for your progress in your path, 

“Believe me, most sincerely yours, 

“C. Stanley.” 

But there was at least one voice which, while refusing 
to join in any expression of prudish censure, or of 
worldly ill-will, could not associate itself with the recog- 
nition so widely paid to the whole-hearted fulfilment of 
a noble purpose. The same formidable critic who had 
protested so forcibly against what he represented as 
the indictment brought in Mary Barton against the 
class on whose behalf he wrote, felt it his duty to place 
on record his caveat against the ethical imperfections 
of the sister-story of Ruth. At the close of an article 
contributed by the late Mr. W. R. Greg to the National 
Review , vol. viii., for 1859, and reprinted by him in his 
Literary and Social Judgments (second Edition, 1869), 
the subject of which was The False Morality of Lady 
Novelists , he, more in sorrow than in anger, included 
Ruth among the books called to account in his allocution. 

After dwelling on the important social and moral 
influence of modern novels, and discussing several 
recently published (more or less ephemeral) works of 
fiction by female writers, the article approaches what 
may, perhaps, without lack of charity, be supposed to 
have been the theme more particularly in the reviewer’s 
mind. “Novelists,” he pronounces, “err grievously 
and habitually in their, estimates of the relative cul- 
pability of certain sins, failings, and backslidings.” 
Should a woman, however young, however ignorant 
in the world’s ways, have once fallen — a phrase cruel 
not so much in itself as by the world’s harsh use of 
it — -“she is punished without discrimination as the most 
sunk of sinners; and, what is more especially to our 


XV 


Introduction 


present purpose, writers of fiction represent her as 
acquiescing in the justice of the sentence.” He then 
proceeds to make his application. “These remarks,” 
he continues, 

“have been suggested to us by the reperusal of a most beautiful 
and touching tale, wherein the erroneous moral estimate we are 
signalising appears in a very mild form; and which, indeed, 
would appear to have been written with the design of mortifying 
or correcting it, though the author’s ideas were not quite clear 
or positive enough to enable her to carry out boldly or develop 
fully the conception she had formed.” 

Then follows a sketch of the plot of the novel, show- 
ing how Ruth was, by the good Mr. Benson and his sister, 
awakened to a perception of her error and of the light, 
in which others regarded it; and how, by the same 
influence, and that of her passionate attachment to her 
child, her character was purified and elevated, and her 
fault redeemed. Then, however, came in the disturbing 
action of Mr. Bradshaw; 

* ‘ the very distilled essence of a disagreeable Pharisee ; os- 
tentatious, patronising, self-confident, and self- worshipping ; 
rigidly righteous according to his own notion, but in our eyes 
a heinous and habitual offender ; a harsh and oppressive tyrant 
in his own family without perceiving it, or rather without 
admitting that his harshness and oppression is other than a 
sublime virtue; yet driving by it one child into rebellion and 
another into hypocrisy and crime, and arousing the angry 
passions of every one with whom he comes in contact; having 
no notion of what temptation is, either as a thing to be resisted 
or succumbed to, for the simple reason that all • his temptations 
which are those of pride, selfishness, and temper, were yielded 
to and defended as virtuous impulses; prone to trample, and 
ignorant of the very meaning of tenderness and mercy. This 
man, reeking with the sins Christ most abhorred, turns upon 
the unhappy Ruth ... as soon as he accidentally learns her 
history, with a brutal, savage violence and a coarse, unfeeling 


XVI 


« Ruth,” etc. 

cruelty, which we need not scruple to affirm constituted a far 
greater sin than poor Ruth had committed, or would have 
committed had her lapse been wilful and persistent instead of 
unconscious, transient and bitterly and nobly atoned for. 
Something of this very conviction was evidently in Mrs. Gaskell’s 
mind, and we can scarcely doubt that she placed Mr. Bradshaw’s 
hard and aggressive Pharisaism in such strong relief and contrast, 
by way of insinuating the comparative moral we have boldly 
stated. In any case, such is the resulting impression which 
must be left upon the reader’s mind. But what we object to 
in her book is this: that the tone and language habitually 
adopted throughout, both by Ruth herself and by her friends 
when alluding to her fault, is at war with this impression, and 
with the true tenor of the facts recorded. Mrs. Gaskell scarcely 
seems at one with herself in this matter. Anxious above all 
things to arouse a kinder feeling in the uncharitable and bitter 
world towards offenders of Ruth’s sort, to show how thoughtless 
and sometimes almost unconscious, such offences sometimes 
are, and how slightly, after all, they may affect real purity of 
nature and piety of spirit, and how truly they may be redeemed 
when treated with wisdom and with gentleness, — she has first 
imagined a character as pure, pious, and unselfish as poet ever 
fancied, and described a lapse from chastity as faultless as such 
a fault can be; and then, with damaging and unfaithful incon- 
sistency, has given in to the world’s estimate in such matters, 
by affirming that the sin committed was of so deep a dye that 
only a life of atoning and enduring persistence could wipe it 
out. If she designed to awaken the world’s compassion for the 
ordinary class of betrayed and deserted Magdalenes, the con- 
sequences of Ruth’s error should not have been made so innocent, 
nor should Ruth herself have been painted as so perfect. If 
she intended to describe a saint (as she has done), she should 
not have held conventional and mysterious language about her 
as a grievous sinner. . . .” 

I think that in this deliverance — well-balanced as at 
first sight it may seem — the arbiter of true and false 
literary morality was in danger of losing his own footing. 
Doubtless the Pharisee who is blind to his own faults, is 
more culpable before the tribunal of perfect justice than 

xvii 


Introduction 


is the sinner who sincerely repents his misdoings; but no 
such comparison is really in question, nor indeed any- 
thing except the necessity of repentance in both thought 
and action for those who have sinned, and the beneficent 
results which follow upon it. Repentance only ajid the 
grace of Heaven, of which it is an ordained instrument, 
can change the sinner into the saint; but in such a change 
there is nothing contrary either to reason or to experience. 
The story of Ruth, or of such a one as Ruth, implies 
neither that she was suddenly plunged into turpitude 
by her grievous error, nor that she was without the 
capacity of self-recovery, whether before or after her 
actual committal of a sin not venial, but not unpar- 
donable. Ruth is no paragon of purity whom an evil 
fate had entrapped into a momentary lapse from virtue, 
but a gentle creature who, while an all but helpless 
child, had stumbled on the threshold, and whom sub- 
mission to a Higher Guidance, working by its own 
methods, enabled to find the way in the end. 

As to the deception in which Ruth takes part, or 
rather into which she is drawn, it has, no doubt, called 
forth censures that are not to be lightly dismissed. 
At the same time, only a blind prejudice could have 
imparted to the writer of the story the intention of 
justifying or condoning a deception which she represents 
as entailing deep and poignant sorrow upon those 
responsible for it. There would probably have been no 
insuperable difficulty in giving a different turn to this 
part of the plot, either by making the offence against 
truth less direct, or perhaps even by avoiding it al- 
together. Mrs. Gaskell seems, however, to have de- 
liberately intended that in the construction of her story 
much should hinge on this “ white lie” ; indeed, it would 
almost appear as if in the present instance, influenced 

xviii 


“Ruth,” etc. 

perhaps by some of the popular theology of her day, 
she had been attracted by the casuistry, if I may so call 
it, of the situation. 

A perplexity of the same kind is treated humorously 
by old Job in Mary Barton , and it recurs incidentally 
in North and South ; but in the latter instance it scarcely 
jars upon the well-intentioned reader; for when Margaret 
Hale tells an untruth, she has to suffer immediately 
and severely for the telling of it. But in Ruth our 
judgment is unsteadied by the very material circum- 
stance, that the original departure from the path of 
truth is not her own; that the deception is contrived, 
not by her, but for her, and that she is herself merely 
acquiescent. It should be noticed, too, as an admirable 
piece of practical ethics, that the falsehood grows, as 
it were, of itself. First, the description “Miss” is 
changed into “Mrs.”; then the surname of “Denbigh” 
is assumed, and then the wedding-ring, followed in 
obedience to Sally’s merciless logic by the widow’s 
cap; finally, good Miss Benson rounds off her invention 
with one or two imaginary details, and “believes” that 
Ruth’s husband had been a young surgeon, for “you 
know,” she tells her brother, “he must have been 
something; and young surgeons are so in the way of 
dying, it seemed very natural.” Moreover, it is at 
least suggested (see the rather over-strained argument 
by which Mr. Benson induces Ruth to accept a gift of 
widow’s weeds from an unwelcome patron) that she was 
resistless against the influence of so high-minded and so 
eloquent a spiritual guide. Mrs. Gaskell must not be 
supposed to have overlooked the distribution of respon- 
sibility which it had been her manifest purpose to indicate, 
when, in a later passage of the story, she incidentally 
describes Ruth’s boy, Leonard, as having “for some time 


XIX 


Introduction 


shown a strange, odd disregard for truth”; for there 
cannot have been any intention of suggesting a hereditary 
element in this failing. 

At the same time it is quite possible — and, indeed, to 
my mind it is highly probable — that the real genesis 
of the pathetic argument of this novel should be sought, 
not in the endeavour of its writer to find the true answer 
to one or more difficult moral problems, but rather in 
an imaginative association of ideas called forth by the 
greatest sorrow of her own life. How constantly and 
deeply she felt the presence of that sorrow, is shown 
by several passages in Ruth, but, above all, by a direct 
personal reminiscence early in the story, occasioned 
by the circumstance that the scene of a painful episode 
in it is laid in a Welsh country inn: 

“He led the way into a large, bow- windowed room, which 
looked gloomy enough that afternoon, but which I have seen 
bright and buoyant with youth and hope within, and sunny 
lights creeping down the purple mountain slope, and stealing 
over the green, soft meadows, till they reached the little garden 
full of roses and lavender-bushes, lying close under the window. 
I have seen — but I shall see no more.” 

“Little child!” — so in another passage of the tale 
she, with a kind of mystical rapture apostrophises the 
infant boy sleeping on his mother’s breast — “thy angel 
was with God, and drew her nearer and nearer to Him 
whose face is continually beheld by the angels of little 
children.” The idea of a young mother’s only boy 
may have readily suggested the idea of a young mother, 
to whom such a possession would be literally everything 
-—and, in a sense, even more full of sorrow and devoid 
of consolation than it would be even to a widow whose 
child was orphaned by the death of its father. Around 


XX 


“ Ruth,” etc. 

a conception due to such an origin, the story would 
very naturally have grown. 

Be this as it may, there are, I think, few of Mrs. 
Gaskell’ s books to the plan of which exception can more 
easily be taken than this; but there is certainly none 
into which she threw more of her heart and soul, and 
which accordingly takes a stronger hold of the reader. 
Construction was at no time her forte , and it cannot 
be said that the return of Ruth’s seducer under another 
name — which, as we are quite casually informed, he 
had assumed “for some property” — is very skilfully 
managed. More oddly and at the same time quite 
unnecessarily, Mr. Donne’s servant, who remained 
faithful to him in his well-deserved desolation, is in 
stage-fashion identified with a boy whom he had pulled 
out of the water in an early stage of the story. There 
are, too, a few slips where it approaches the border-line 
of politics, a sphere which Mrs. Gaskell was usually fain 
to avoid; and I think, Mrs. Stanley’s fine criticism not- 
withstanding, that there is a certain crudity in the 
drawing of the not altogether magnetic Lovelace, who 
was unable to reconquer the soul of this humble, but 
not less lovely, Clarissa. 

On the other hand, how admirably composed is the 
group among which Ruth’s lot is cast, after she and her 
child had been rescued by the good minister. Mr. 
Benson himself is sympathetically drawn. His Christian 
name, Thurstan, was an old family name of the Hollands. 
Very probably some traits in him were reminiscences 
of an earlier friend of Mrs. Gaskell’ s — William Turner, 
a Unitarian minister at Newcastle-on-Tyne, in whose 
family she had, in her later childhood, spent two winters; 
but in Thurstan Benson’s talk — at once subtle and 
sincere — it is impossible not to trace a far-off echo of 


XXI 


Introduction 

the great-hearted divine, on the influence of whose 
teaching I have already touched — Frederick Denison 
Maurice. 

To the eager devotion of the brother, the droiture 
of the sister supplies an admirable foil.; and the most 
humorous character of the story is their servant Sally, 
worthy to be remembered with Peggotty and a very 
few others, but possessed of a distinct northern quality 
of her own. Excellent above all is her self-consciousness 
as a church woman, even as against her beloved master — 
a trait characteristic of Mrs. Gaskell, who always 
had a kindly corner in her heart for what then were 
still the comfortable ways of the establishment. 
It should at the same time be noticed, that while Mr. 
Benson is a dissenting minister, no pretence is made 
of his being anything else — a satisfactory proof that the 
complaint of one of the critics of Cranford , how in those 
days Nonconformity had to be translated into Church 
for the benefit of readers of the “first circles of polite 
fiction,” was losing its sting. 

The Bradshaw family and their surroundings are 
drawn with a truthful hand — the portrait (fit for any 
board-room) of Mr. Bradshaw himself with a moderation 
that becomes apparent if it is compared with that of 
Mr. Bounderby in Hard Times , of whom, especially in 
his relation to his daughter, Mrs. Gaskell’ s earlier 
creation may fairly be held to have suggested the first 
outlines. Jemima in Ruth is a delightful picture of 
a pure and happy nature, to whom even jealousy, 
when she discovers the earliest symptoms of it in her 
woman’s breast, is a matter of conjecture only. 

Nor is the setting of this pure and beautiful story 
unworthy of it. No less powerful a critic than George 
Eliot was to bear witness to the idyllic beauty of the 


XXII 



THE VALE OF FFESTINIOG. 








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“Ruth,” etc. 

descriptive passages of a book to which, though still 
written in what Mrs. Gaskell herself called the “minor 
key” of Mary Barton , was thus imparted a tranquillity 
and harmony of tone to which the great author of 
Adam Bede and The Mill on the Floss perhaps hardly 
does justice in this letter. The mind takes possession 
once for all, of such pictures as that of Ruth and her 
lover at- the pool: a spot which, though the centre of 
the Welsh scenery in this part of the story is certainly 
Ffestiniog, is, in all probability, to be identified with 
the Deepdale Pool, Silverdale — as it was, not as it now 
is. George Eliot speaks of Mrs. Gaskell’s “love of 
sharp contrasts” and “dramatic effects,” and regrets 
that she should not be “content with the half-trials of 
real life.” “But,” the great writer continues, with 
less questionable justice, “how pretty and graphic are 
the touches of description. . . . Mrs. Gaskell has 
certainly a charming mind.” If by the descriptive 
beauty of some of its passages, Ruth was worthy of a 
writer in whose veins there was a drop of James Thom- 
son’s blood, the book had higher qualities than this. 
There is nothing charming in dogmatism; but Ruth 
is, as a story, not dogmatic. Though it-s authoress 
could not be unaware that she was often near the 
confines of theological and philosophical argument, 
her second novel, like her first, spoke the language 
of her heart. 

The last chapters of Ruth cannot very easily be treated 
from a purely literary point of view; but even under this 
aspect they have a significance of their own. At the 
present day novelists have come to find the height of 
art — perhaps because in their eyes this is synonymous 
with fidelity to their experience of nature — in leaving 
their argument without a conclusion, and their story 


xxm 


Introduction 


without an end. Mrs. Gaskell’s artistic sense was in 
harmony with her religious conviction. Sophoclean 
tragedy sought not only to state the problems of life, 
but to indicate their solution. The long and enigmatic 
second part of Goethe’s Faust is designed to symbolise 
the redemption of erring humanity by the love that 
rises above self. Our simple tale of English every-day 
life leads the repentant sinner through tribulation and 
self-sacrifice to the presence of Him that sitteth on the 
throne. 

It is gratifying to me to have been able to recover as 
Mrs. Gaskell’s the paper which appeared in Household 
Words for January 22, 1853, under the title of Cum- 
berland Sheep-shearers. In a letter to Mrs. Gaskell, 
dated January 20th, of that year, John Forster wrote: 

“I happened to be dining with Dickens last night, and asked 
him who the deuce had written the delightful article on ‘ Sheep- 
shearing’? It could not be Miss Martineau, for the writer 
talked of her daughter; and, let alone the little love-picture, 
this forbade it. Who on earth was it? and he told me.” 

Wise after the event, w*e may well wonder that 
Forster’s uninstructed acumen failed to suggest to him 
the authorship of a singularly true and characteristic 
reproduction of out-of-the-way English country life, 
animated by the poetic touch which makes the difference 
between the picture and the photograph. 

It was, as the paper states, while staying near Kes- 
wick that Mrs. Gaskell witnessed and chronicled a celebra- 
tion of what may, in a sense, be described as the most 
important, and among the most long-lived, of all the 
local festivities of Cumberland and Westmorland. 
The economic prosperity of these counties is bound up 
with the tending of their flocks of sheep, and with their 


XXIV 


“Ruth,” etc. 

production of, and trade in, wool. The traditions of 
these occupations mount back to a remote antiquity; 
indeed, the late learned Chancellor Ferguson of Carlisle, 
in his History of Cumberland (1890), notes that the 
numerals used not many years before for sheep-scoring 
were, with reason, supposed to be derived from the 
Celtic tongue. As for the particular stage in the history 
of a Cumberland sheep and its fleece, during which the 
two part company — the shearing days — Mr. Daniel 
Scott in his Bygone Cumberland and Westmorland (1899), 
speaks of them as formerly high festivals on the fells 
and in the dales of both counties. He refers his readers 
to the chapter in John Richardson of St. John’s Cum- 
berland Talk (1871-6) on Auld Fashint Chip pins and 
Sec Like in Stwories at Ganny uset to Tell. 

Was Mrs. Gaskell inspired to this delightful tour 
de force — for the last thing that would have occurred 
to her would be to go in search of the picturesque — • 
by the resemblance of a much more conscious effort 
on the part of a remote collateral ancestor of her own ? 
In the course of the book Summer , the author of The 
Seasons , after describing with amplitude the preliminary 
process of washing in the brook 

“ . . . the troubled flocks, by many a dog 
Compell’d” 

and the subsequent removal of “the harmless race” 
to where 

“ranged in lofty rows 

The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears,” 

winds up with a satisfactory recognition of the imperial 
importance of the British cloth industry: 

“A simple scene! yet here Britannia sees 
Her solid grandeur rise, ” etc. 


xxv 


Introduction 

Better known to modern readers, as it probably 
was to Mrs. Gaskell— who, in this paper, refers to 
“Mr. Wordsworth” — is the twenty-third of the Duddon 
Sonnets , which describes, not indeed the sheep-shearing, 
but the sheep-washing, which immediately precedes it. 
(The passage on p. 468 of this volume should be read 
carefully, as attesting this natural order of sequence, 
which a misprint in Household Words inverted). 

“Sad thoughts, avaunt! partake we tffeir blithe cheer 
Who gathered in betimes the unshorn flock, 

To wash the fleece, where haply bands of rock, 

Checking the stream, make a pool smooth and clear 
As this we look on. Distant mountains hear, 

Hear and repeat, the turmoil that unites 
Clamour of boys with innocent despites 
Of barking dogs, and bleating from strange fear. 

And what if Duddon’s spotless flood receive 
Unwelcome mixtures as the uncouth noise 
Thickens, the pastoral River will forgive 
Such wrong; nor need we blame the licensed joys, 

Though false to Nature’s quiet equipoise 
Frank are the sports, the stains are fugitive.” 

The details of Mrs. Gaskell’ s paper might seduce me 
into much desultory comment, but I have no desire 
to over-burden with useless illustration a production 
of so spontaneous a freshness, into which the references 
to Wordsworth and Coleridge, as well as to classics 
unconnected with the Lakes — Spenser, Marvell, and 
Jane Austen — enter quite naturally. Yet the paper 
deserves careful reading; for Mrs. Gaskell was not in 
the habit of doing things by halves, and, as will be seen 
immediately, she had a strong liking for the study of 
popular customs and traditions. I have had the 
advantage of showing the Cumberland Sheep-shearing 
to a friend who is at the same time a distinguished 

xxvi 


“Ruth,” etc. 

scholar and a devoted lover of the Lake country. Dr. 
r E. B. England, bf High Wray, Ambleside, mentions two 
things within his own knowledge as confirming his general 
expression of the correctness of all the local details in 
this paper. 4< I ha\tea master’s cupboard in my dining- 
room; only, there is a door to it. Perhaps the door 
is a late addition. Also, a farmer near here has a dog 
named ‘ Fly. ’ ” I may add that some curious illustrations 
of the .extraordinary value formerly set in this part of 
the country on tea, before it became a common and in- 
dispensable article of consumption, will be found on 
pp. 178-9 of Mr. Scott’s book, already cited. 

It is a far cry from the. Cumberland fells to the slopes 
of Parnassus; but the warm interest which Mrs. Gaskell 
took in popular customs and traditions, and in all kinds 
of folklore, was not confined to any particular district 
or country. Her books and her letters are full of ob- 
servation of such relics and reminiscences of the past 
among her, own conservative- neighbours in Lancashire 
and Cheshire ; and they attracted her in the course of 
her wanderings at home and abroad, and of her readings 
about distant lands and their inhabitants. The paper 
on Modern Greek Songs appeared in Household Words 
on February 25, 1854, on the 18th of which month 
Dickens, then at work on Hard Times, wrote to Mrs. 
Gaskell : 

“ Such has been the distraction of my mind in my story, that 
I have twice forgotten to tell you how much I liked the ‘ Modern 
Greek Songs.’ The article is printed and at the press, for the 
next number as ever is.” 

It is in substance a review of Claude Fauriel’s justly 
celebrated book , Chants Populates de la Grece Moderne, 


XXV11 


Introduction 


which appeared in 1824-5, in two volumes, and of which, 
in the latter year, an abbreviated English version was 
brought out by Charles Brinsley Sheridan. I am under 
the impression that Mrs. Gaskell, who only very excep- 
tionally wrote special articles about books, made 
acquaintance with Fauriel’s work by the advice of her 
learned friend, Mr. Julius Mohl, "who was intimate 
with his brother-professor, and, after Fauriel’s death, 
edited two important posthumous works from his 
indefatigable hand. 

Fauriel was a very remarkable man, into whose long 
literary life (he was born in 1772, and died in 1844, 
after half a century of varied labours) was crowded 
a quite extraordinary literary productivity. He was 
not, as Mrs. Gaskell seems to have been informed, a 
Greek, but a native of Saint Etienne, whose childhood 
was partly spent in the Vivarais: Almost directly from 
the training of the Oratorians he passed into the military 
service of the young French Republic, to emerge again, 
after an interval of obscuration, as private secretary 
to — Fouche! But literature — comparative literature in 
particular — was the real vocation of his life; and among 
his many important contributions to different parts of 
its wide field, none was more conspicuous, and, in France, 
at least, more read, than the book which suggested 
Mrs. Gaskell’s paper. Fauriel’s work was, of course, 
inspired by the enthusiasm for the cause of the liberation 
of Hellas, which was at that time at its height in the 
whole civilised West — 1824 was the year in which Sultan 
Mahmud II. called in the help of his Egyptian vassal 
to arrest the progress of the Greek insurrection. Fauriel 
w T as a thorough republican at heart, as well as animated 
by a special sympathy for the cause of a people striving 
to recover its national existence. This spirit shows 

xxviii 


“ Ruth,” etc. 

itself in part of the Preliminaire, or Introduction to the 
book, especially in the masterly account of the Klephts 
reproduced in part by Mrs. Gaskell. But the work is 
at the same time conceived in a thoroughly scientific 
spirit, and may be said to have been the real beginning 
in France of that close study of popular poetry which 
Herder had commended in Germany half a century 
before, and of which, in our own country, Percy had set 
a still earlier example, to be followed by Ritson, and, as 
Mrs. Gaskell notes, by Sir Walter Scott. Fauriel’s 
translations of the songs given by him are in prose — - 
but in a prose which catches the spirit of the poetic 
original far more satisfactorily than that kind of verse 
translation which is so apt to become conventional. 
This danger was not avoided by Fauriel’s English 
translator; who dates his volume from Duke Street, 
the refuge of so many generous causes, and who intended 
that its profits should supplement the funds of the 
Society for the Promotion of Education among the 
Greeks — a branch of the British and Foreign School 
Society. 

Always observant and always sympathetic, Mrs. 
Gaskell had evidently for some time taken an interest 
in Greece and the Greeks; doubtless, even before she, 
rather late in the day, fell in with Fauriel’s book. This 
interest may have been stimulated by Manchester 
experiences; for it may be conjectured that the Greek 
lady who invited her to be present at the family Easter 
ceremonies, was a resident of Acro-Broughton, a suburb 
which has probably a larger, and certainly a far wealthier 
Greek population than all the islands of the Aegean put 
together. 

For a fuller explanation of the technical terms in 
this paper, the reader must be referred to Fauriel’s 

xxix 


Introduction 

general and special introductions, and to his notes. 
Mrs. Gaskell gives the substance of his account of the 
village festivals called “ paneghyris ” ; his definition of 
a “myriologia” may be worth quoting. He describes 
it as une improvisation funebre , inspiree par la douleur; 
it is always extemporaneous, and always addresses 
itself to an individual. One of these “ myriologues,” 
by the way, was translated, or adapted, from Fauriel s 
collection by Mrs. Hemans, amon^ whose inexhaustible 
store of themes for verse Greek subjects not unfre- 
quently recur. Whether at the present day “every one 
remembers” her stanzas, The Message to the Dead , I 
will not undertake to say. It will be found on p. 459 
in the complete 1849 Edition of her Poems. 


Company Manners, which appeared in Household 
Words on May 20, 1854, and was reprinted with 
Lizzie Leigh, and other Tales , in the following year, 
cannot fairly be set down as a review. In the good — 
or bad — old Saturday Review days, we should have 
frankly called it a “middle” — and an uncommonly tak- 
ing middle, too, though perhaps rather in J. R. Green’s 
style than in the slightly earlier of Fitzjames Stephen. 
The opening is particularly happy; though, if one might 
venture to criticise so delightful a criticism, it would 
be worth pointing out that it was the travesty rather 
than the tradition of the Hotel Rambouillet which 
Moliere held up to ridicule. Madame de Sable herself, 
even in Victor Cousin’s sympathetic pages, hardly 
leaves on us the impression of a woman of special 
intellectual instincts; but justice is hardly done here 
to the excellent sense — le bon sens is something 
different from our plain “common-sense” — which suf- 


XXX 


“ Ruth,” etc. 

ficed to make the twenty years of her Port-Royal life 
harmonise so satisfactorily with the three-score or there- 
abouts that had preceded them. After all, if the truth 
were confessed, the art of making few mistakes should 
be allowed to count for something in the supreme 
function of tenir un salon . 

The application of the moral which Mrs. Gaskell drew 
from the more or less august example of Victor Cousin’s 
type — and perhaps from one which she had nearer to 
hand in that of her favourite Parisian friend and hostess, 
Madame Mohl — is altogether felicitous. Here her 
“good sense,” and her sense of fun, could work together 
in perfect harmony. Her precepts, and the impression 
(which stands in need of no biographical verification) 
that she was in the habit of carrying out these precepts 
in practice, are quite irresistible. The essay (as Elia 
would have designated it) on Company Manners may 
perhaps induce a younger generation to believe that, 
given a pleasant hostess, there was such a thing as 
pleasant society even in the “earlier” Victorian age; 
though the dogmatics of Walker’s Original on the subject 
of good dinners were already beginning to be forgotten, 
and the flood of enlightenment as to the secret of cutting 
all social “ functions ” short had not yet set in. 

With Lizzie Leigh, and other Tales were also reprinted, 
in 1 85 5, the two sketches of homely Manchester life, 
respectively entitled Bessy's Troubles at Home and 
Hand and Heart, which, forming admirable counterparts 
to one another, effectively enforce the supreme lesson 
of unselfishness. They must have proved satisfactory 
to the simple and youthful readers for whom they w T ere 
doubtless intended, and who were, according to their 

xxxi 


Introduction 


kind, good judges of what comes home, and of what 
falls wide of the mark. For us elders the charm of these 
little tales, the latter in particular, lies in their natural 
piety. 

June, 1906 


* 


xxxii 


RUTH 










RUTH 


CHAPTER I 

THE DRESSMAKER’S APPRENTICE AT WORK 

There is an assize-town in one of the eastern counties 
which was much distinguished by the Tudor sovereigns, 
and, in consequence of their favour and protection, attained 
a degree of importance that surprises the modern traveller. 

A hundred years ago its appearance was that of pictur- 
esque grandeur. The old houses, which were the temporary 
residences of such of the county families as contented them- 
selves with the gaieties of a provincial town, crowded the 
streets, and gave them the irregular but noble appearance 
yet to be seen in the cities of Belgium. The sides of the 
streets had a quaint richness, from the effect of the gables, 
and the stacks of chimneys which cut against the blue sky 
above ; while, if the eye fell lower down, the attention was 
arrested by all kinds of projections in the shape of balcony 
and oriel ; and it was amusing to see the infinite variety of 
windows that had been crammed into the walls long before 
Mr. Pitt’s days of taxation. The streets below suffered from 
all these projections and advanced storeys above ; they were 
dark, and ill-paved with large, round, jolting pebbles, and 
with no side-path protected by kerbstones ; there were no 
lamp-posts for long winter nights ; and no regard was paid 
to the wants of the middle class, who neither drove about 
in coaches of their own, nor were carried by their own men 
in their own sedans into the very halls of their friends. 
The professional men and their wives, the shopkeepers and 

i b 


Ruth 

their spouses, and all such people, walked about at con- 
siderable peril both night and day. The broad, unwieldy 
carriages hemmed them up against the houses in the narrow 
streets. The inhospitable houses projected their flights of 
steps almost into the carriage-way, forcing pedestrians again 
into the danger they had avoided for twenty or thirty paces. 
Then, at night, the only light was derived from the glaring, 
flaring oil-lamps, hung above the doors of the more aristo- 
cratic mansions; just allowing space for the passers-by to 
become visible, before they again disappeared into the dark-' 
ness, where it was no uncommon thing for robbers to be in 
waiting for their prey. 

The traditions of those bygone times, even to the smallest 
social particular, enable one to understand more clearly the 
circumstances which contributed to the formation of cha- 
racter. The daily life into which people are born, and into 
which they are absorbed before they are well aware, forms 
chains which only one in a hundred has moral strength 
enough to despise, and to break when the right time comes 
— when an inward necessity for independent individual 
action arises, which is superior to all outward convention- 
alities. Therefore, it is well to know what were the chains 
of daily domestic habit, which were the natural leading- 
strings of our forefathers before they learnt to go alone. 

The picturesqueness of those ancient streets has departed 
now. The Astleys, the Dunstans, the Waverhams — names 
of power in that district— go up duly to London in the 
season, and have sold their residences in the county town 
fifty years ago, or more. And when the county town lost 
its attraction for the Astleys, the Dunstans, the Waverhams, 
how could it be supposed that the Domvilles, the Bextons, 
and the Wildes would continue to go and winter there in 
their second-rate houses, and with their increased expen- 
diture ? So the grand old houses stood empty awhile ; and 
then speculators ventured to purchase, and to turn the 
deserted mansions into many smaller dwellings, fitted for 
professional men, or even (bend your ear lower, lest the 

2 


The Dressmaker’s Apprentice at Work 

shade of Marmaduke, first Baron Waverham, hear) into 
shops ! 

Even that was not so very bad, compared with the next 
innovation on the old glories. The shopkeepers found out 
that the once fashionable street was dark, and that the 
dingy light did not show off their goods to advantage ; the 
surgeon could not see to draw his patients’ teeth ; the lawyer 
had to ring for candles an hour earlier than he was accus- 
tomed to do when living in a more plebeian street. In 
short, by mutual consent, the whole front of one side of 
the street was pulled down, and rebuilt in the flat, mean, 
unrelieved style of George the Third. The body of the 
houses was too solidly grand to submit to alteration ; so 
people were occasionally surprised, after passing through a 
commonplace-looking shop, to find themselves at the foot 
of a grand carved oaken Staircase, lighted by a window of 
stained glass, storied all over with armorial bearings. 

Up such a stair — past such a window (through which 
the moonlight fell on her with a glory of many colours) — 
Ruth Hilton passed wearily one January night, now many 
years ago. I call it night; but, strictly speaking, it was 
morning. Two o’clock in the morning chimed forth the old 
bells of St. Saviour’s. And yet, more than a dozen girls still 
sat in the room into which Ruth entered, stitching away as 
if for very life, not daring to gape, or show any outward 
manifestation of sleepiness. They only sighed a little when 
Ruth told Mrs. Mason the hour of the night, as the result 
of her errand ; for they knew that, stay up as late as they 
might, the work-hours of the next day must begin at eight, 
and their young limbs were very weary. 

Mrs. Mason worked away as hard as any of them ; but 
she was older and tougher; and, besides, the gains were 
hers. But even she perceived that some rest was needed. 
“ Young ladies ! there will be an interval allowed of half- 
an-hour. Ring the bell, Miss Sutton. Martha shall bring 
you up some bread, and cheese, and beer. You will be so 
good as to eat it standing — away from the dresses — and to 

3 


Ruth 

have your hands washed ready for work when I return. In 
half-an-hour,” said she once more, very distinctly ; and then 
she left the room. 

It was curious to watch the young girls as they instan- 
taneously availed themselves of Mrs. Mason’s absence. One 
fat, particularly heavy-looking damsel laid her head on her 
folded arms and was asleep in a moment; refusing to be 
wakened for her share in the frugal supper, but springing 
up with a frightened look at the sound of Mrs. Mason’s 
returning footstep, even while it was still far off on the 
echoing stairs. Two or three others huddled over the scanty 
fireplace, which, with every possible economy of space, and 
no attempt whatever at anything of grace or ornament, was 
inserted in the slight, flat-looking wall, that had been run 
up by the present owner of the property to portion off this 
division of the grand old drawing-room of the mansion. 
Some employed the time in eating their bread and cheese, 
with as measured and incessant a motion of the jaws (and 
almost as stupidly placid an expression of countenance), as 
you may see in cows ruminating in the first meadow you 
happen to pass. 

Some held up admiringly the beautiful ball-dress in 
progress, while others examined the effect, backing from the 
object to be criticised in the true artistic manner. Others 
stretched themselves into all sorts of postures to relieve the 
weary muscles; one or two gave vent to all the yawns, 
coughs, and sneezes that had been pent up so long in the 
presence of Mrs. Mason. But Buth Hilton sprang to the 
large old window, and pressed against it as a bird presses 
against the bars of its cage. She put back the blind, and 
gazed into the quiet moonlight night. It was doubly light — 
almost as much so as day — for everything was covered with 
the deep snow which had been falling silently ever since the 
evening before. The window was in a square recess ; the 
old strange little panes of glass had been replaced by those 
which gave more light. A little distance off, the feathery 
branches of a larch waved softly to and fro in the scarcely 

4 


The Dressmaker’s Apprentice at Work 

perceptible night-breeze. Poor old larch ! the time had 
been when it had stood in a pleasant lawn, with the tender 
grass creeping caressingly up its very trunk ; but now the 
lawn was divided into yards and squalid back premises, and 
the larch was pent up and girded about with flagstones. 
The snow lay thick on its boughs, and now and then fell 
noiselessly down. The old stables had been added to, and 
altered into a dismal street of mean-looking houses, back to 
back with the ancient mansions. And over all these changes 
from grandeur to squalor, bent down the purple heavens 
with their unchanging splendour ! 

Ruth pressed her hot forehead against the cold glass, 
and strained her aching eyes in gazing out on the lovely 
sky of a winter’s night. The impulse was strong upon her 
to snatch up a shawl, and, wrapping it round her head, to 
sally forth and enjoy the glory; and time was when that 
impulse would have been instantly followed ; but now, 
Ruth’s eyes filled with tears, and she stood quite still 
dreaming of the days that were gone. Some one touched 
her shoulder while her thoughts were far away, remembering 
past January nights, which had resembled this, and were 
yet so different. 

“Ruth, love,” whispered a girl, who had unwillingly 
distinguished herself by a long hard fit of coughing, “ come 
and have some supper. You don’t know yet how it helps 
one through the night.” 

“ One run — one blow of the fresh air would do me more 
good,” said Ruth. 

“ Not such a night as this,” replied the other, shivering at 
the very thought. 

“ And why not such a night as this, Jenny ? ” answered 
Ruth. “ Oh ! at home I have many a time run up the lane 
all the way to the mill, just to see the icicles hang on the 
great wheel ; and, when I was once out, I could hardly find 
in my heart to come in, even to mother, sitting by the fire ; 
— even to mother,” she added, in a low, melancholy tone, 
which had something of inexpressible sadness in it. “ Why, 

5 


/ 

Ruth 

Jenny!” said she, rousing herself, but not before her eyes 
were swimming in tears, “ own, now, that you never saw 
those dismal, hateful, tumble-down old houses there look 
half so — what shall I call them ? almost beautiful — as they 
do now, with that soft, pure, exquisite covering ; and if they 
are so improved, think of what trees, and grass, and ivy 
must be on such a night as this.’* 

Jenny could not be persuaded into admiring the winter’s 
night, which to her came only as a cold and dismal time, 
when her cough was more troublesome; and the pain in her 
side worse than usual. But she put her arm round Ruth’s 
neck, and stood by her, glad that the orphan apprentice, 
who was not yet inured to the hardship of a dressmaker’s 
workroom, should find so much to give her pleasure in such a 
common occurrence as a frosty night. 

They remained deep in separate trains of thought till Mrs. 
Mason’s step was heard, when each returned supperless, but 
refreshed, to her seat. 

Ruth’s place was the coldest and the darkest in the room, 
although she liked it the best ; she had instinctively chosen 
it for the sake of the wall opposite to her, on which was a 
remnant of the beauty of the old drawing-room, which must 
once have been magnificent, to judge from the faded 
specimen left. It was divided into panels of pale sea-green, 
picked out with white and gold ; and on these panels were 
painted — were thrown with the careless, triumphant hand of 
a master — the most lovely wreaths of flowers, profuse and 
luxuriant beyond description, and so real-looking, that you 
could almost fancy you smelt their fragrance, and heard the 
south wind go softly rustling in and out among the crimson 
roses — the branches of purple and white lilac — the floating 
golden- tressed laburnum boughs. Besides these, there were 
stately white lilies, sacred to the Virgin — hollyhocks, 
fraxinella, monk’s-hood, pansies, primroses; every flower 
which blooms profusely in charming old-fashioned country 
gardens was there, depicted among its graceful foliage, but 
not in the wild disorder in which I have enumerated them. 

6 


The Dressmaker’s Apprentice at Work 

At the bottom of the panel lay a holly branch, whose stiff 
straightness was ornamented by a twining drapery of 
English ivy, and mistletoe, and winter aconite ; while down 
either side hung penden^ garlands of spring and autumn 
flowers ; and, crowning all, came gorgeous summer with the 
sweet musk-roses, and the rich-coloured flowers of June 
and July. 

Surely Monnoyer, or whoever the dead-and-gone artist 
might be, would have been gratified to know the pleasure 
his handiwork, even in its wane, had power to give to the 
heavy heart of a young girl ; for they conjured up visions of 
other sister-flowers that grew, and blossomed, and withered 
away in her early home. 

Mrs. Mason was particularly desirous that her workwomen 
should exert themselves to-night, for, on the next, the annual 
hunt-ball was to take place. It was the one gaiety of the 
town since the assize-balls had been discontinued. Many 
were the dresses she had promised should be sent home 
“ without fail ” the next morning ; she had not let one slip 
through her fingers, for fear, if it did, it might fall into the 
hands of the rival dressmaker, who had just established 
herself in the very same street. 

She determined to administer a gentle stimulant to the 
flagging spirits, and with a little preliminary cough to attract 
attention, she began — 

“ I may as well inform you, young ladies, that I have 
been requested this year, as on previous occasions, to allow 
some of my young people to attend in the antechamber of 
the assembly-room with sandal ribbon, pins, and such little 
matters, and to be ready to repair any accidental injury to the 
ladies’ dresses. I shall send four— of the most diligent.” 
She laid a marked emphasis on the last words, but without 
much effect ; they were too sleepy to care for any of the 
pomps and vanities, or, indeed, for any of the comforts of 
this world, excepting one sole thing — their beds. 

Mrs. Mason was a very worthy woman, but, like many 
other worthy women, she had her foibles ; and one (very 

7 


Ruth 

natural to her calling) was to pay an extreme regard to 
appearances. Accordingly, she had already selected in her 
own mind the four girls who were most likely to do credit to 
the “ establishment ; ” and these were secretly determined 
upon, although it was very well to promise the reward to the 
most diligent. She was really not aware of the falseness of 
this conduct; being an adept ifr that species of sophistry 
with which people persuade themselves that what they wish 
to do is right. 

At last there was no resisting the evidence of weariness. 
They were told to go to bed ; but even that welcome com- 
mand was languidly obeyed. Slowly they folded up their 
work, heavily they moved about, until at length all was put 
away, and they trooped up the wide, dark staircase. 

“ Oh ! how shall I get through five years of these terrible 
nights ! in that close room ! and in that oppressive stillness ! 
which lets every sound of the thread be heard as it goes 
eternally backwards and forwards,” sobbed out Euth, as 
she threw herself on her bed, without even undressing 
herself. 

“ Nay, Euth, you know it won’t be always as it has been 
to-night. We often get to bed by ten o’clock, and by-and-by 
you won’t mind the closeness of the room. You’re worn- 
out to-night, or you would not have minded the sound of the 
needle ; I never hear it. Come, let me unfasten you,” said 
Jenny. 

“ What is the use of undressing ? We must be up again 
and at work in three hours.” 

“ And in those three hours you may get a great deal of 
rest, if you will but undress yourself and fairly go to bed. 
Come, love.” 

Jenny’s advice was not resisted ; but before Euth went 
to sleep she said — 

“ Oh ! I wish I was not so cross and impatient. I don’t 
think I used to be.” 

“No, I am sure not. Most new girls get impatient at 
first ; but it goes off, and they don’t care much for anything 

8 


The Dressmaker’s Apprentice at Work 

after a while. Poor child ! she’s asleep already,” said Jenny 
to herself. 

She could not sleep or rest. The tightness at her side was 
worse than usual. She almost thought she ought to mention 
it in her letters home ; but then she remembered the premium 
her father had struggled hard to pay, and the large family, 
younger than herself, that had to be cared for, and she 
determined to bear on, and trust that, when the warm 
weather came, both the pain and the cough would go away. 
She would be prudent about herself. 

What was the matter with Euth ? She was crying in her 
sleep as if her heart would break. Such agitated slumber 
could be no rest ; so Jenny wakened her. 

“ Euth ! Euth ! ” 

“ Oh, Jenny ! ” said Euth, sitting up in bed, and pushing 
back the masses of hair that were heating her forehead, “ I 
thought I saw mamma by the side of the bed, coming as she 
used to do, to see if I were asleep and comfortable ; and when 
I tried to take hold of her, she went away and left me alone — 
I don’t know where ; so strange ! ” 

“ It was only a dream ; you know you’d been talking 
about her to me, and you’re feverish with sitting up late. 
Go to sleep again, and I’ll watch, and waken you if you 
seem uneasy.” 

“ But you’ll be so tired. Oh, dear ! dear ! ” Euth was 
asleep again, even while she sighed. 

Morning came, and though their rest had been short, the 
girls arose refreshed. 

“ Miss Sutton, Miss Jennings, Miss Booth, and Miss 
Hilton, you will see that you are ready to accompany me to 
the shire-hall by eight o’clock.” 

One or two of the girls looked astonished, but the 
majority, having anticipated the selection, and knowing from 
experience the unexpressed rule by which it was made, re- 
ceived it with the sullen indifference which had become 
their feeling with regard to most events — a deadened sense 
of life, consequent upon their unnatural mode of existence, 

9 


Ruth 

their sedentary days, and their frequent nights of late 
watching. 

But to Ruth it was inexplicable. She had yawned, and 
loitered, and looked off at the beautiful panel, and lost herself 
in thoughts of home, until she fully expected the reprimand 
which at any other time she would have been sure to receive, 
and now, to her surprise, she wa^ singled out as one of the 
most diligent ! 

Much as she longed for the delight of seeing the noble 
shire-hall — the boast of the county — and of catching glimpses 
of the dancers, and hearing the band ; much as she longed 
for some variety to the dull, monotonous life she was leading, 
she could not feel happy to accept a privilege, granted, as 
she believed, in ignorance of the real state of the case ; so 
she startled her companions by rising abruptly and going up 
to Mrs. Mason, who was finishing a dress which ought to 
have been sent home two hours before — 

“ If you please, Mrs. Mason, I was not one of the most 
diligent ; I am afraid — I believe — I was not diligent at all. 
I was very tired ; and I could not help thinking, and, when I 
think, I can’t attend to my work.” She stopped, believing 
she had sufficiently explained her meaning ; but Mrs. Mason 
would not understand, and did not wish for any further 
elucidation. 

“ Well, my dear, you must learn to think and work, too ; 
or, if you can’t do both, you must leave off thinking. Your 
guardian, you know, expects you to make great progress in 
your business, and I am sure you won’t disappoint him.” 

But that was not to the point. Ruth stood still an instant, 
although Mrs. Mason resumed her employment in a manner 
which any one but a “ new girl ” would have known to 
be intelligible enough, that she did not wish for any more 
conversation just then. 

“ But as I was not diligent I ought not to go, ma’am. 
Miss Wood was far more industrious than I, and many of 
the others.” 

“ Tiresome girl ! ” muttered Mrs. Mason ; “ I’ve half a 


10 


Ruth goes to the Shire-hall 

mind to keep her at home for plaguing me so.” But, look- 
ing up, she was struck afresh with the remarkable beauty 
which Ruth possessed ; such a credit to the house, with her 
waving outline of figure, her striking face, with dark eye- 
brows and dark lashes, combined with auburn hair and a 
fair complexion. No! diligent or idle, Ruth Hilton must 
appear to-night. 

“ Miss Hilton,” said Mrs. Mason, with stiff dignity, “ I 
am not accustomed (as these young ladies can tell you) to 
have my decisions questioned. What I say, I mean ; and 
I have my reasons. So sit down, if you please, and take 
care and be ready by eight. Not a word more,” as she 
fancied she saw Ruth again about to speak. 

“ Jenny, you ought to have gone, not me,” said Ruth, in 
no low voice to Miss Wood, as she sat down by her. 

“ Hush ! Ruth. I could not go if I might, because of my 
cough. I would rather give it up to you than any one, if it 
were mine to give. And suppose it is, then take the pleasure 
as my present, and tell me every bit about it when you come 
home to-night.” 

“ Well ! I shall take it in that way, and not as if I’d 
earned it, which I haven’t. So thank you. You can’t think 
how I shall enjoy it now. I did work diligently for five 
minutes last night, after I heard of it ; I wanted to go so 
much. But I could not keep it up. Oh, dear ! and I shall 
really hear a band! and see the inside of that beautiful 
shire-hall ! ” 


CHAPTER II 

RUTH GOES TO THE SHIRE-HALL 

In due time that evening, Mrs. Mason collected her “ young 
ladies ” for an inspection of their appearance before proceed- 
ing to the shire-hall. Her eager, important, hurried manner 
of summoning them was not unlike that of a hen clucking 


Ruth 

her chickens together; and, to judge from the close investi- 
gation they had to undergo, it might have been thought that 
their part in the evening’s performance was to be far more 
important than that of temporary ladies ’-maids. 

“Is that your best frock, Miss Hilton?” asked Mrs. 
Mason, in a half-dissatisfied tone, turning Ruth about ; for 
it was only her Sunday black sill^ and was somewhat worn 
and shabby. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” answered Ruth quietly. 

“ Oh ! indeed. Then it will do ” (still the half-satisfied 
tone). “ Dress, young ladies, you know, is a very secondary 
consideration. Conduct is everything. Still, Miss Hilton, 
I think you should write and ask your guardian to send you 
some money for another gown. I am sorry I did not think 
of it before.” 

“ I do not think he would send any if I wrote,” answered 
Ruth, in a low voice. “ He was angry when I wanted a 
shawl, when the cold weather set in.” 

Mrs. Mason gave her a little push of dismissal, and Ruth 
fell into the ranks by her friend, Miss Wood. 

“ Never mind, Ruthie ; you’re prettier than any of them,” 
said a merry, good-natured girl, whose plainness excluded 
her from any of the envy of rivalry. 

“ Yes ; I know I am pretty,” said Ruth sadly ; “but I 
am sorry I have no better gown, for this is very shabby. I 
am ashamed of it myself, and I can see Mrs. Mason is twice 
as much ashamed. I wish I need not go. I did not know 
we should have to think about our own dress at all, or I 
should not have wished to go.” 

“Never mind, Ruth,” said Jenny, “you’ve been looked 
at now , and Mrs. Mason will soon be too busy to think about 
you and your gown.” 

“ Did you hear Ruth Hilton say she knew she was 
pretty? ” whispered one girl to another, so loudly that Ruth 
caught the words. 

“ I could not help knowing,” answered she simply, “ for 
many people have told me so.” 


12 


Ruth goes to the Shire-hall 

At length these preliminaries were over, and they were 
walking briskly through the frosty air ; the free motion was 
so inspiriting that Ruth almost danced along, and quite 
forgot all about shabby gowns and grumbling guardians. 
The shire-hall was even more striking than she had expected. 
The sides of the staircase were painted with figures that 
showed ghostly in the dim light, for only their faces looked 
out of the dark, dingy canvas, with a strange fixed stare of 
expression. 

The young milliners had to arrange their wares on tables 
in the ante-room, and make all ready before they could 
venture to peep into the ball-room, where the musicians 
were already tuning their instruments, and where one or 
two charwomen (strange contrast, with their dirty, loose 
attire, and their incessant chatter, to the grand echoes of the 
vaulted room !) were completing the dusting of benches and 
chairs. 

They quitted the place as Ruth and her companions 
entered. They had talked lightly and merrily in the ante- 
room, but now their voices were hushed, awed by the old 
magnificence of the vast apartment. It was so large that 
objects showed dim at the further end, as through a mist. 
Full-length figures of county worthies hung around, in all 
varieties of costume, from the days of Holbein to the present 
time. The lofty roof was indistinct, for the lamps were not 
fully lighted yet ; while through the richly-painted Gothic 
window at one end the moonbeams fell, many-tinted, on the 
floor, and mocked with their vividness the struggles of the 
artificial light to illuminate its little sphere. 

High above sounded the musicians, fitfully trying some 
strain of which they were not certain. Then they stopped 
playing, and talked, and their voices sounded goblin-like in 
their dark recess, where candles were carried about in an 
uncertain wavering manner, reminding Ruth of the flickering 
zig-zag motion of the will-o’-the-wisp. 

Suddenly the ^ room sprang into the full blaze of light, 
and Ruth felt less impressed with its appearance, and more 

13 


Ruth 

willing to obey Mrs. Mason’s sharp summons to her wander- 
ing flock, than she had been when it was dim and mysterious. 
They had presently enough to do in rendering offices of 
assistance to the ladies who thronged in, and whose voices 
drowned all the muffled sound of the band Ruth had longed 
so much to hear. Still, if one pleasure was less, another 
was greater than she had anticipated. 

“ On condition ” of such a number of little observances 
that Ruth thought Mrs. Mason would never have ended 
enumerating them, they were allowed during the dances to 
stand at a side-door and watch. And what a beautiful sight 
it was ! Floating away to that bounding music — now far 
away, like garlands of fairies, now near, and showing as 
lovely women, with every ornament of graceful dress — the 
elite of the county danced on, little caring whose eyes gazed 
and were dazzled. Outside all was cold, and colourless, and 
uniform, — one coating of snow over all. But inside it was 
warm, and glowing, and vivid ; flowers scented the air, and 
wreathed the head, and rested on the bosom, as if it were 
midsummer. Bright colours flashed on the eye and were 
gone, and succeeded by others as lovely in the rapid move- 
ment of the dance. Smiles dimpled every face, and low tones 
of happiness murmured indistinctly through the room in 
every pause of the music. 

Ruth did not care to separate figures that formed a joyous 
and brilliant whole ; it was enough to gaze, and dream of 
the happy smoothness of the lives in which such music, and 
such profusion of flowers, of jewels, elegance of every 
description, and beauty of all shapes and hues, were every- 
day things. She did not want to know who the people 
were ; although to hear a catalogue of names seemed to be 
the great delight of most of her companions. 

In fact, the enumeration rather disturbed her ; and, to 
avoid the shock of too rapid a descent into the commonplace 
world of Miss Smiths and Mr. Thomsons, she returned to 
her post in the ante-room. There she stood, thinking or 
dreaming. She was startled back to actual life by a voice 

14 


Ruth goes to the Shire-hall 

close to her. One of the dancing young ladies had met with 
a misfortune. Her dress, of some gossamer material, had 
been looped up by nosegays of flowers, and one of these 
had fallen off in the dance, leaving her gown to trail. To 
repair this, she had begged her partner to bring her to the 
room where the assistants should have been. None were 
there but Euth. 

“ Shall I leave you ? ” asked the gentleman. “ Is my 
absence necessary ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” replied the lady ; “ a few stitches will set all 
to rights. Besides, I dare not enter that room by myself.” 
So far she spoke sweetly and prettily. But now she ad- 
dressed Euth. “ Make haste — don’t keep me an hour ! ” 
And her voice became cold and authoritative. 

She was very pretty, with long dark ringlets and spark- 
ling black eyes. These had struck Euth in the hasty glance 
she had taken, before she knelt down to her task. She also 
saw that the gentleman was young and elegant. 

“ Oh, that lovely galop ! how I long to dance to it ! Will 
it never be done ? What a frightful time you are taking ; and 
I’m dying to return in time for this galop ! ” 

By way of showing a pretty, childlike impatience, she 
began to beat time with her feet to the spirited air the band 
was playing. Euth could not darn the rent in her dress with 
this continual motion, and she looked up to remonstrate. As 
she threw her head back for this purpose, she caught the eye 
of the gentleman who was standing by ; it was so expressive 
of amusement at the airs and graces of his pretty partner, 
that Euth was infected by the feeling, and had to bend her 
face down to conceal the smile that mantled there. But not 
before he had seen it ; and not before his attention had been 
thereby drawn to consider the kneeling figure, that, habited 
in black up to the throat, with the noble head bent down to 
the occupation in which she was engaged, formed such a 
contrast to the flippant, bright, artificial girl, who sat to be 
served with an air as haughty as a queen on her throne. 

“ Oh, Mr. Bellingham ! I’m ashamed to detain you so 
i5 


Ruth 

long. I had no idea any one could have spent so much time 
over a little tear. No wonder Mrs. Mason charges so much 
for dressmaking, if her workwomen are so slow.” 

It was meant to be witty, but Mr. Bellingham looked grave. 
He saw the scarlet colour of annoyance flush to that beautiful 
cheek, which was partially presented to him. He took a 
candle from the table, and helc^it so that Buth had more 
light. She did not look up to thank him, for she felt ashamed 
that he should have seen the smile which she had caught 
from him. 

“ I am sorry I have been so long, ma’am,” said she gently, 
as she finished her > work ; “I was afraid it might tear out 
again if I did not do it carefully.” She rose. 

“ I would rather have had it torn than have missed that 
charming galop,” said the young lady, shaking out her dress 
as a bird shakes its plumage. “ Shall we go, Mr. Belling- 
ham ? ” looking up at him. 

He was surprised that she gave no word or sign of thanks 
to the assistant. He took up a camellia that some one had 
left on the table. 

“ Allow me, Miss Duncombe, to give this, in your name, 
to this young lady, as thanks for her dexterous help.” 

“ Oh, of course,” said she. 

Ruth received the flower silently, but with a grave, modest 
motion of her head. They had gone, and she was once more 
alone. Presently her companions returned. 

“ What was the matter with Miss Duncombe ? Did she 
come here ? ” asked they. 

“ Only her lace dress was tom, and I mended it,” answered 
Ruth quickly. 

“ Did Mr. Bellingham come with her ? — they say he’s 
going to be married to her. Did he come, Ruth ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Ruth, and relapsed into silence. 

Mr. Bellingham danced on gaily and merrily through the 
night, and flirted with Miss Duncombe as he thought good. 
But he looked often to the side- door where the milliner’s 
apprentices stood ; and once he recognised the tall, slight 

16 


Ruth goes to the Shire-hall 

figure, and the rich auburn hair of the girl in black; and 
then his eye sought for the camellia. It was there, snowy 
white in her bosom. And he danced on more gaily than ever. 

The cold grey dawn was drearily lighting up the streets 
when Mrs. Mason and her company returned home. The 
lamps were extinguished, yet the shutters of the shops and 
dwellinghouses were not opened. All sounds had an echo 
unheard by day. One or two houseless beggars sat on 
doorsteps, and shivering, slept with heads bowed on their 
knees, or resting against the cold hard support afforded by 
the wall. 

Ruth felt as if a dream had melted away, and she were 
once more in the actual world. How long it would be, even 
in the most favourable chance, before she should again enter 
the shire-hall, or hear a band of music, or even see again those 
bright, happy people— as much without any semblance of 
care or woe as if they belonged to another race of beings ! 
Had they ever to deny themselves a wish, much less a want ? 
Literally and figuratively their lives seemed to wander 
through flowery pleasure-paths. Here was cold, biting, mid- 
winter for her, and such as her — for those poor beggars 
almost a season of death ; but to Miss Duncombe and her 
companions, a happy, merry time — when flowers still 
bloomed, and fires crackled, and comforts and luxuries were 
piled around them like fairy gifts. What did they know of 
the meaning of the word, so terrific to the poor ? What 
was winter to them ? But Ruth fancied that Mr. Bellingham 
looked as if he could understand the feelings of those removed 
from him by circumstance and station. He had drawn up 
the windows of his carriage, it is true, with a shudder. 

Ruth, then, had been watching him. 

Yet she had no idea that any association made her 
camellia precious to her. She believed it was solely on 
account of its exquisite beauty that she tended it so carefully. 
She told Jenny every particular of its presentation, with 
open, straight-looking eye, and without the deepening of a 
shade of colour. 


i7 


c 


Ruth 

“ Was it not kind of him ? You can’t think how nicely 
he did it, just when I was a little bit mortified by her un- 
gracious ways.” 

“ It was very nice, indeed,” replied Jenny. “ Such a 
beautiful flower ! I wish it had some scent.” 

“ I wish it to be exactly as it is — it is perfect. So pure ! ” 
said Euth, almost clasping her ‘measure as she placed it in 
water. “ Who is Mr. Bellingham ? ” 

“ He is son to that Mrs. Bellingham of the Priory, for 
whom we made the grey satin pelisse,” answered Jenny 
sleepily. 

“ That was before my time,” said Ruth. But there was 
no answer. Jenny was asleep. 

It was long before Ruth followed her example. Even on 
a winter day, it was clear morning light that fell upon her 
face as she smiled in her slumber. Jenny would not waken 
her, but watched her face with admiration ; it was so lovely 
in its happiness. 

“ She is dreaming of last night,” thought Jenny. 

It was true she was ; but one figure flitted more than all 
the rest through her visions. He presented flower after 
flower to her in that baseless morning dream, which was all 
too quickly ended. The night before she had seen her dead 
mother in her sleep, and she wakened weeping. And now 
she dreamed of Mr. Bellingham, and smiled. 

And yet, was this a more evil dream than the other ? 

The realities of life seemed to cut more sharply against 
her heart than usual that morning. The late hours of the 
preceding nights, and perhaps the excitement of the evening 
before, had indisposed her to bear calmly the rubs and crosses 
which beset all Mrs. Mason’s young ladies at times. 

For Mrs. Mason, though the first dressmaker in the 
county, was human after all ; and suffered, like her apprentices, 
from the same causes that affected them. This morning she 
was disposed to find fault with everything, and everybody. 
She seemed to have risen with the determination of putting 
the world and all that it contained (her world, at least) to 

18 


Ruth goes to the Shire-hall 

rights before night ; and abuses and negligences, which had 
long passed unreproved, or winked at, were to-day to be 
dragged to light, and sharply reprimanded. Nothing less 
than perfection would satisfy Mrs. Mason at such times. 

She had her ideas of justice, too; but they were not 
divinely beautiful and true ideas ; they were something 
more resembling a grocer’s or tea-dealer’s ideas of equal 
right. A little over-indulgence last night was to be 
balanced by a good deal of over-severity to-day ; and this 
manner of rectifying previous errors fully satisfied her 
conscience. 

Euth was not inclined for, or capable of, much extra 
exertion ; and it would have tasked all her powers to have 
pleased her superior. The work-room seemed filled with 
sharp calls. “ Miss Hilton ! where have you put the blue 
Persian ? Whenever things are mislaid, I know it has been 
Miss Hilton’s evening for siding away ! ” 

“ Miss Hilton was going out last night, so I offered to 
clear the work-room for her. I will find it directly, ma’am,” 
answered one of the girls. 

“ Oh, I am well aware of Miss Hilton’s custom of shuffling 
off her duties upon any one who can be induced to relieve 
her,” replied Mrs. Mason. 

Euth reddened, and tears sprang to her eyes ; but she 
was so conscious of the falsity of the accusation, that she 
rebuked herself for being moved by it, and, raising her head, 
gave a proud look round, as if in appeal to her companions. 

“ Where is the skirt of Lady Farnham’s dress ? The 
flounces not put on ! I am surprised ! May I ask to whom 
this work was entrusted yesterday ? ” inquired Mrs. Mason, 
fixing her eyes on Euth. 

“ I was to have done it, but I made a mistake, and had 
to undo it. I am very sorry.” 

“ I might have guessed, certainly. There is little diffi- 
culty, to be sure, in discovering, when work has been 
neglected or spoilt, into whose hands it has fallen.” 

Such were the speeches which fell to Euth’s share on 
19 


Ruth 

this day of all days, when she was least fitted to bear them 
with equanimity. 

In the afternoon it was necessary for Mrs Mason to go 
a few miles into the country. She left injunctions, and 
orders, and directions, and prohibitions without end ; but at 
last she was gone, and, in the relief of her absence, Ruth laid 
her arms on the table, and, burning her head, began to cry 
aloud, with weak, unchecked sobs. 

“ Don’t cry, Miss Hilton ; ” — “ Ruthie, never mind the old 
dragon ; ” — “ How will you bear on for five years, if you don’t 
spirit yourself up not to care a straw for what she says ? ” — 
were some of the modes of comfort and sympathy adminis- 
tered by the young workwomen. 

Jenny, with a wiser insight into the grievance and its 
remedy, said — 

“ Suppose Ruth goes out instead of you, Fanny Barton, 
to do the errands. The fresh air will do her good ; and you 
know you dislike the cold east winds, while Ruth says she 
enjoys frost and snow, and all kinds of shivery weather.” 

Fanny Barton was a great sleepy-looking girl, huddling 
over the fire. No one so willing as she to relinquish the 
walk on this bleak afternoon, when the east wind blew keenly 
down the street, drying up the very snow itself. There was 
no temptation to come abroad, for those who were not abso- 
lutely obliged to leave their warm rooms ; indeed, the dusk 
hour showed that it was the usual tea-time for the humble 
inhabitants of that part of the town through which Ruth had 
to pass on her shopping expedition. As she came to the 
high ground just above the river, where the street sloped 
rapidly down to the bridge, she saw the flat country beyond 
all covered with snow, making the black dome of the cloud- 
laden sky appear yet blacker ; as if the winter’s night had 
never fairly gone away, but had hovered on the edge of the 
world all through the short bleak day. Down by the bridge 
(where there was a little shelving bank, used as a landing- 
place for any pleasure-boats that could float on that shallow 
stream) some children were playing, and defying the cold ; 


20 


Ruth goes to the Shire-hall 

one of them had got a large washing-tub, and with the use 
of a broken oar kept steering and pushing himself hither and 
thither in the little creek, much to the admiration of his 
companions, who stood gravely looking on, immovable in 
their attentive observation of the hero, although their faces 
were blue with cold, and their hands crammed deep into 
their pockets with some faint hope of finding warmth there. 
Perhaps they feared that, if they unpacked themselves from 
their lumpy attitudes and began to move about, the cruel 
wind would find its way into every cranny of their tattered 
dress. They were all huddled up, and still ; with eyes intent 
on the embryo sailor. At last, one little man, envious of the 
reputation that his playfellow was acquiring by his daring, 
called out — 

“I’ll set thee a craddy, Tom ! Thou dar’n’t go over yon 
black line in the water, out into the real river.” 

Of course the challenge was not to be refused ; and Tom 
paddled away towards the dark line, beyond which the river 
swept with smooth, steady current. Ruth (a child in years her- 
self) stood at the top of the declivity watching the adventurer, 
but as unconscious of any danger as the group of children 
below. At their playfellow’s success, they broke through the 
calm gravity of observation into boisterous marks of applause, 
clapping their hands, and stamping their impatient little feet, 
and shouting, “Well done, Tom ; thou hast done it rarely ! ” 
Tom stood in childish dignity for a moment, facing his 
admirers ; then, in an instant, his washing-tub boat was 
whirled round, and he lost his balance, and fell out ; and both 
he and his boat were carried away slowly, but surely, by the 
strong full river which eternally moved onwards to the sea. 

The children shrieked aloud with terror ; and Ruth flew 
down to the little bay, and far into its shallow waters, before 
she felt how useless such an action was, and that the sensible 
plan would have been to seek for efficient help. Hardly had 
this thought struck her, when, louder and sharper than the 
sullen roar of the stream that was ceaselessly and unrelent- 
ingly flowing on, came the splash of a horse galloping through 

21 


Ruth 

the water in which she was standing. Past her like lightning 
— down in the stream, swimming along with the current — 
a stooping rider — an outstretched grasping arm — a little life 
redeemed, and a child saved to those who loved it ! Ruth 
stood dizzy and sick with emotion while all this took place ; 
and when the rider turned the swimming horse, and slowly 
breasted up the river to the lading-place, she recognised 
him as the Mr. Bellingham of the night before. He carried 
the unconscious child across his horse, the body hung in 
so lifeless a manner that Ruth believed it was dead ; and her 
eyes were suddenly blinded with tears. She waded back to 
the beach, to the point towards which Mr. Bellingham was 
directing his horse. 

“Is he dead ? ” asked she, stretching out her arms to 
receive the little fellow; for she instinctively felt that the 
position in which he hung was not the most conducive to 
returning consciousness, if indeed it would ever return. 

“ I think not,” answered Mr. Bellingham, as he gave the 
child to her, before springing off his horse. “Is he your 
brother ? Do you know who he is ? ” 

“ Look ! ” said Ruth, who had sat down upon the ground, 
the better to prop the poor lad, “ his hand twitches ! he 
lives ; oh, sir, he lives ! Whose boy is he ? ” (to the people, 
who came hurrying and gathering to the spot at the rumour 
of an accident). 

“ He’s old Nelly Brownson’s,” said they. “ Her grand- 
son.” 

“We must take him into a house directly,” said she. “ Is 
his home far off ? ” 

“ No, no; it’s just close by.” 

“ One of you go for a doctor at once,” said Mr. Belling- 
ham authoritatively, “ and bring him to the old woman’s 
without delay. You must not hold him any longer,” he con- 
tinued, speaking to Ruth, and remembering her face now for 
the first time ; “ your dress is dripping wet already. Here ! 
you fellow, take him up, d’ye see ! ” 

But the child’s hand had nervously clenched Ruth’s dress, 
22 


Ruth goes to the Shire-hall 

and she would not have him disturbed. She carried her 
heavy burden very tenderly towards a mean little cottage 
indicated by the neighbours; an old crippled woman was 
coming out of the door, shaking all over with agitation. 

“ Dear heart ! ” said she, “ he’s the last of ’em all, and 
he’s gone afore me.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Mr. Bellingham, “ the boy is alive, and 
likely to live.” 

But the old woman was helpless and hopeless, and in- 
sisted on believing that her grandson was dead; and dead 
he would have been if it had not been for Ruth, and one 
or two of the more sensible neighbours, who, under Mr. 
Bellingham’s directions, bustled about, and did all that was 
necessary until animation was restored. 

“ What a confounded time those people are in fetching 
the doctor!” said Mr. Bellingham to Ruth, between whom 
and himself a sort of silent understanding had sprung up 
from the circumstance of them having been the only two 
(besides mere children) who had witnessed the accident, and 
also the only two to whom a certain degree of cultivation 
had given the power of understanding each other’s thoughts 
and even each other’s words. 

“ It takes so much to knock an idea into such stupid 
people’s heads. They stood gaping and asking which doctor 
they were to go for, as if it signified whether it was Brown 
or Smith, so long as he had his wits about him. I have no 
more time to waste here, either ; I was on the gallop when 
I caught sight of the lad ; and, now he has fairly sobbed and 
opened his eyes, I see no use in my staying in this stifling 
atmosphere. May I trouble you with one thing ? Will you 
be so good as to see that the little fellow has all that he 
wants ? If you’ll allow me, I’ll leave you my purse,” con- 
tinued he, giving it to Ruth, who was only too glad to have 
this power entrusted to her of procuring one or two requisites 
which she had perceived to be wanted. But she saw some 
gold between the network; she did not like the charge of 
such riches. 


23 


Ruth 

“ I shall not want so much, really, sir. One sovereign 
will be plenty — more than enough. May I take that out, 
and I will give you back what is left of it when I see you 
again ? or, perhaps, I had better send it to you, sir. 

“ I think you had better keep it all at present. Oh, what 
a horrid dirty place this is ! insufferable two minutes longer. 
You must not stay here ; you’ll be poisoned with this abomin- 
able air. Come towards the door, I beg. Well, if you think 
one sovereign will be enough, I will take my purse ; only, 
remember you apply to me if you think they want more.” 

They were standing at the door, where some one was 
holding Mr. Bellingham’s horse. Ruth was looking at him 
with her earnest eyes (Mrs. Mason and her errands quite 
forgotten in the interest of the afternoon’s event), her whole 
thoughts bent upon rightly understanding and following out 
his wishes for the little boy’s welfare ; and until now this 
had been the first object in his 'own mind. But at this 
moment the strong perception of Ruth’s exceeding beauty 
came again upon him. He almost lost the sense of what he 
was saying, he was so startled with admiration. The night 
before he had not seen her eyes; and now they looked 
straight and innocently full at him, grave, earnest, and deep. 
But when she instinctively read the change in the expression 
of his countenance, she dropped her large white veiling lids ; 
and he thought her face was lovelier still. 

The irresistible impulse seized him to arrange matters, so 
that he might see her again before long. 

“ No ! ” said he. “ I see it would be better that you 
should keep the purse. Many things may be wanted for 
the lad which we cannot calculate upon now. If I remember 
rightly, there are three sovereigns and some loose change ; I 
shall, perhaps, see you again in a few days, when, if there 
be any money left in the purse, you can restore it to me.” 

“ Oh, yes, sir,” said Ruth, alive to the magnitude of the 
wants to which she might have to administer, and yet rather 
afraid of the responsibility implied in the possession of so 
much money. 


24 


Ruth goes to the Shire-hall 

“ Is there any chance of my meeting yon again in this 
house ? ” asked he. 

“ I hope to come whenever I can, sir ; but I must run in 
errand-times, and I don’t know when my turn may be.” 

“ Oh he did not fully understand this answer — “ I 
should like to know how you think the boy is going on, if 
it is not giving you too much trouble ; do you ever take 
walks ? ” 

“Not for walking’s sake, sir.” 

“Well,” said he, “you go to church, I suppose? Mrs. 
Mason does not keep you at work on Sundays, I trust ? ” 

“ Oh, no, sir. I go to church regularly.” 

“ Then, perhaps, you will be so good as to tell me what 
church you go to, and I will meet you there next Sunday 
afternoon ? ” 

“I go to St. Nicholas’, sir. I will take care and bring 
you word how the boy is, and what doctor they get ; and I 
will keep an account of the money I spend.” 

“ Very well, thank you. Eemember, I trust to you.” 

He meant that he relied on her promise to meet him ; 
but Euth thought that he was referring to the responsibility 
of doing the best she could for the child. He was going 
away, when a fresh thought struck him, and he turned back 
into the cottage once more, and addressed Euth, with a half- 
smile on his countenance 

“ It seems rather strange, but we have no one to introduce 
us ; my name is Bellingham — yours is ” — 

“Euth Hilton, sir,” she answered, in a low voice, for, 
now that the conversation no longer related to the boy, she 
felt shy and restrained. 

He held out his hand to shake hers ; and, just as she gave 
it to him, the old grandmother came tottering up to ask 
some question. The interruption jarred upon him, and 
made him once more keenly alive to the closeness of the air, 
and the squalor and dirt by which he was surrounded. 

“ My good woman,” said he to Nelly Brownson, “ could 
you not keep your place a little neater and cleaner ? It is 

25 


Ruth 

more fit for pigs than human beings. The air in this room 
is quite offensive, and the dirt and filth is really disgraceful. 

By this time he was mounted, and, bowing to Buth, he 
rode away. 

Then the old woman’s wrath broke out. 

“ Who may you be, that knows no better manners than 
to come into a poor woman’s touse to abuse it ? — fit for 
pigs, indeed ! What d’ye call yon fellow ? ” 

“ He is Mr. Bellingham,” said Buth, shocked at the old 
woman’s apparent ingratitude. “ It was he that rode into 
the water to save your grandson. He would have been 
drowned but for Mr. Bellingham. I thought once they 
would both have been swept away by the current, it was so 
strong.” 

“ The river is none so deep, either,” the old woman said, 
anxious to diminish as much as possible the obligation she 
was under to one who had offended her. “ Some one else 
would have saved him, if this fine young spark had never 
been here. He’s an orphan, and God watches over orphans, 
they say. I’d rather it had been any one else as had picked 
him out, than one who comes into a poor body’s house only 
to abuse it.” 

“ He did not come in only to abuse it,” said Buth gently. 
“ He came with little Tom ; he only said it was not quite so 
clean as it might be.” 

“ What ! you’re taking up the cry, are you ? Wait till 
you are an old woman like me, crippled with rheumatiz, and 
a lad to see after like Tom, who is always in mud when he 
isn’t in water ; and his food and mine to scrape together 
(God knows we’re often short, and do the best I can), and 
water to fetch up that steep brow.” 

She stopped to cough ; and Buth judiciously changed 
the subject, and began to consult the old woman as to the 
wants of her grandson, in which consultation they were 
soon assisted by the medical man. 

When Buth had made one or two arrangements with a 
neighbour whom she asked to procure the most necessary 

26 


Ruth goes to the Shire-hall 

things, and had heard from the doctor that all would be 
right in a day or two, she began to quake at the recollection 
of the length of time she had spent at Nelly Brownson’s, 
and to remember, with some affright, the strict watch kept 
by Mrs. Mason oyer her apprentices’ out-goings and in- 
comings on working-days. She hurried off to the shops, 
and tried to recall her wandering thoughts to the respective 
merits of pink and blue as a match to lilac, found she had 
lost her patterns, and went home with ill -chosen things, and 
in a fit of despair at her own stupidity. 

The truth was, that the afternoon’s adventure filled her 
mind ; only the figure of Tom (who was now safe and likely 
to do well) was receding into the background, and that of 
Mr. Bellingham becoming more prominent than it had been. 
His spirited and natural action of galloping into the water 
to save the child, was magnified by Buth into the most 
heroic deed of daring ; his interest about the boy was 
tender, thoughtful benevolence in her eyes, and his careless 
liberality of money was fine generosity ; for she forgot that 
generosity implies some degree of self-denial. She was 
gratified, too, by the power of dispensing comfort he had 
entrusted to her, and was busy with Alnaschar visions of 
wise expenditure, when the necessity of opening Mrs. 
Mason’s house-door summoned her back into actual present 
life, and the dread of an immediate scolding. 

For this time, however, she was spared ; but spared for 
such a reason that she would have been thankful for some 
blame in preference to her impunity. During her absence, 
Jenny’s difficulty of breathing had suddenly become worse, 
and the girls had, on their own responsibility, put her to 
bed, and were standing round her in dismay, when Mrs. 
Mason’s return home (only a few minutes before Ruth 
arrived) fluttered them back into the workroom. 

And now all was confusion and hurry ; a doctor to be 
sent for ; a mind to be unburdened of directions for a dress 
to a forewoman, who was too ill to understand ; scoldings 
to be scattered with no illiberal hand amongst a group of 

2 7 


Ruth 

frightened girls, hardly sparing the poor invalid herself for 
her inopportune illness. In the middle of all this turmoil 
Ruth crept quietly to her place, with a heavy saddened 
heart at the indisposition of the gentle forewoman. She 
would gladly have nursed Jenny herself, and often longed to 
do it, but she could not be spared. Hands, unskilful in fine 
and delicate work, would be we 1 ! enough qualified to tend 
the sick, until the mother arrived from home. Meanwhile, 
extra diligence was required in the workroom ; and Ruth 
found no opportunity of going to see little Tom, or to fulfil 
the plans for making him and his grandmother more comfort- 
able, which she had proposed to herself. She regretted her 
rash promise to Mr. Bellingham, of attending to the little 
boy’s welfare ; all that she could do was done by means of 
Mrs. Mason’s servant, through whom she made inquiries, 
and sent the necessary help. 

The subject of Jenny’s illness was the prominent one in 
the house. Ruth told of her own adventure, to be sure ; 
but, when she was at the very crisis of the boy’s fall into the 
river, the more fresh and vivid interest of some tidings of 
Jenny was brought into the room, and Ruth ceased, almost 
blaming herself for caring for anything besides the question 
of life or death to be decided in that very house. 

Then a pale, gentle-looking woman was seen moving 
softly about ; and it was whispered that this was the mother 
come to nurse her child. Everybody liked her, she was so 
sweet-looking, and gave so little trouble, and seemed so 
patient, and so thankful, for any inquiries about her 
daughter, whose illness it was understood, although its 
severity was mitigated, was likely to be long and tedious. 
While all the feelings and thoughts relating to Jenny were 
predominant, Sunday arrived. Mrs. Mason went the accus- 
tomed visit to her father’s, making some little show of 
apology to Mrs. Wood for leaving her and her daughter; 
the apprentices dispersed to the various friends with whom 
they were in the habit of spending the day ; and Ruth went 
to St. Nicholas’, with a sorrowful heart, depressed on account 

28 


Ruth goes to the Shire-hall 

of Jenny, and self -reproachful at having rashly undertaken 
what she had been unable to perform. 

As she came out of church she was joined by Mr. 
Bellingham. She had half hoped that he might have for- 
gotten the arrangement, and yet she wished to relieve herself 
of her responsibility. She knew his step behind her, and 
the contending feelings made her heart beat hard, and she 
longed to run away. 

“ Miss Hilton, I believe,” said he, overtaking her, and 
bowing forward, so as to catch a sight of her rose-red face. 
“ How is our little sailor going on ? Well, I trust, from the 
symptoms the other day.” 

“ I believe, sir, he is quite well now. I am very sorry, 
but I have not been able to go and see him. I am so sorry 
— I could not help it. But I have got one or two things 
through another person. I have put them down on this slip 
of paper ; and here is your purse, sir, for I am afraid I can 
do nothing more for him. We have illness in the house, and 
it makes us very busy.” 

Ruth had been so much accustomed to blame of late, 
that she almost anticipated some remonstrance or reproach 
now, for not having fulfilled her promise better. She little 
guessed that Mr. Bellingham was far more busy trying to 
devise some excuse for meeting her again, during the silence 
that succeeded her speech, than displeased with her for not 
bringing a more particular account of the little boy, in whom 
he had ceased to feel any interest. 

She repeated, after a minute’s pause — • 

“ I am very sorry I have done so little, sir.” 

“ Oh, yes, I am sure you have done all you could. It was 
thoughtless in me to add to your engagements.” 

“ He is displeased with me,” thought Ruth, “ for what he 
believes to have been neglect of the boy, whose life he risked 
his own to save. If I told all, he would see that I could not 
do more ; but I cannot tell him all the sorrows and worries 
that have taken up my time.” 

“ And yet I am tempted to give you another little 
29 


Ruth 

commission, if it is not taking up too much of your time, and 
presuming too much on your good nature,” said he, a bright 
idea having just struck him. “ Mrs. Mason lives in Heneage 
Place, does not she ? My mother’s ancestors lived there ; and 
once, when the house was being repaired, she took me in to 
show me the old place. There was an old hunting-piece 
painted on a panel over one of the^chimney-pieces ; the figures 
were portraits of my ancestors. I have often thought I should 
like to purchase it, if it still remained there. Can you ascer- 
tain this for me, and bring me word next Sunday ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, sir,” said Ruth, glad that this commission was 
completely within her power to execute, and anxious to 
make up for her previous seeming neglect. “ I’ll look directly 
I get home, and ask Mrs. Mason to write and let you know.” 

“ Thank you,” said he, only half satisfied ; “I think, 
perhaps, however, it might be as well not to trouble Mrs. 
Mason about it : you see it would compromise me, and I am 
not quite determined to purchase the picture ; if you would 
ascertain whether the painting is there, and tell me, I would 
take a little time to reflect, and afterwards I could apply to 
Mrs. Mason myself.” 

“Very well, sir ; I will see about it.” So they parted. 

Before the next Sunday Mrs. Wood had taken her 
daughter to her distant home, to recruit in that quiet place. 
Ruth watched her down the street from an upper window, 
and, sighing deep and long, returned to the workroom, 
whence the warning voice and gentle wisdom had departed. 


30 


Sunday at Mrs. Mason’s 


CHAPTER III 

SUNDAY AT MRS. MASON’S 

Mr. Bellingham attended afternoon service at St. Nicholas’ 
church the next Sunday. His thoughts had been far more 
occupied by Buth than hers by him, although his appearance 
upon the scene of her life was more an event to her than it 
was to him. He was puzzled by the impression she had 
produced on him, though he did not in general analyse the 
nature of his feelings, but simply enjoyed them with the 
delight which youth takes in experiencing new and strong 
emotion. 

He was old compared to Buth, but young as a man ; 
hardly three-and-twenty. The fact of his being an only child 
had given him, as it does to many, a sort of inequality in 
those parts of the character which are usually formed by the 
number of years that a person has lived. 

The unevenness of discipline to which only children are 
subjected; the thwarting, resulting from over-anxiety; the 
indiscreet indulgence, arising from a love centred all in one 
object — had been exaggerated in his education, probably from 
the circumstance that his mother (his only surviving parent) 
had been similarly situated to himself. 

He was already in possession of the comparatively small 
property he inherited from his father. The estate on which 
his mother lived was her own ; and her income gave her the 
means of indulging or controlling him, after he had grown to 
man’s estate, as her wayward disposition and her love of 
power prompted her. 

Had he been double-dealing in his conduct towards her, 
had he condescended to humour her in the least, her passion- 
ate love for him would have induced her to strip herself of 
all her possessions to add to his dignity or happiness. But 

3 1 


Ruth 

although he felt the warmest affection for her, the regardless- 
ness which she had taught him (by example, perhaps, more 
than by precept) of the feelings of others, was continually 
prompting him to do things that she, for the time being, 
resented as mortal affronts. He would mimic the clergyman 
she specially esteemed, even to his very face; he would 
refuse to visit her schools for months and months ; and, when 
wearied into going at last, revenue himself by puzzling the 
children with the most ridiculous questions (gravely put) 
that he could imagine. 

All these boyish tricks annoyed and irritated her far 
more than the accounts which reached her of more serious 
misdoings at college and in town. Of these grave offences 
she never spoke ; of the smaller misdeeds she hardly ever 
ceased speaking. 

Still, at times, she had great influence over him, and 
nothing delighted her more than to exercise it. The sub- 
mission of his will to hers was sure to be liberally rewarded ; 
for it gave her great happiness to extort, from his indiffer- 
ence or his affection, the concessions which she never sought 
by force of reason, or by appeals to principle — concessions 
which he frequently withheld, solely for the sake of asserting 
his independence of her control. 

She was anxious for him to marry Miss Duncombe. He 
cared little or nothing about it — it was time enough to be 
married ten years hence ; and so he was dawdling through 
some months of his life — sometimes flirting with the nothing- 
loth Miss Duncombe, sometimes plaguing, and sometimes 
delighting his mother, at all times taking care to please him- 
self — when he first saw Euth Hilton, and a new, passionate, 
hearty feeling shot through his whole being. He did not 
know why he was so fascinated by her. She was very 
beautiful, but he had seen others equally beautiful, and with 
many more agaceries calculated to set off the effect of their 
charms. 

There was, perhaps, something bewitching in the union 
of the grace and loveliness of womanhood with the naivete , 

32 


Sunday at Mrs. Mason’s 

simplicity, and innocence of an intelligent child. There was 
a spell in the shyness, which made her avoid and shun all 
admiring approaches to acquaintance. It would be an 
exquisite delight to attract and tame her wildness, just as 
he had often allured and tamed the timid fawns in his 
mother’s park. 

By no over-bold admiration, or rash, passionate word, 
would he startle her; and, surely, in time she might be 
induced to look upon him as a friend, if not something nearer 
and dearer still. 

In accordance with this determination, he resisted the 
strong temptation of walking by her side the whole distance 
home after church. He only received the intelligence she 
brought respecting the panel with thanks, spoke a few words 
about the weather, bowed, and was gone. Ruth believed she 
should never see him again ; and, in spite of sundry self- 
upbraidings for her folly, she could not help feeling as if a 
shadow were drawn over her existence for several days to 
come. 

Mrs. Mason was a widow, and had to struggle for the 
sake of the six or seven children left dependent on her 
exertions ; thus there was some reason, and great excuse, 
for the pinching economy which regulated her household 
affairs. 

On Sundays she chose to conclude that all her appren- 
tices had friends who would be glad to see them to dinner, 
and give them a welcome reception for the remainder of the 
day ; while she, and those of her children who were not at 
school, went to spend the day at her father’s house, several 
miles out of the town. Accordingly, no dinner was cooked 
on Sundays for the young workwomen ; no fires were lighted 
in any rooms to which they had access. On this morning 
they breakfasted in Mrs. Mason’s own parlour, after which 
the room was closed against them through the day by some 
understood, though unspoken prohibition. 

What became of such as Ruth, who had no home and no 
friends in that large, populous, desolate town ? She had 

33 d 


Ruth 

hitherto commissioned the servant, who went to market on 
Saturdays for the family, to buy her a bun or biscuit, whereon 
she made her fasting dinner in the deserted workroom, 
sitting in her walking-dress to keep off the cold, which clung 
to her in spite of shawl and bonnet. Then she would sit at 
the window, looking out on the dreary prospect till her eyes 
were often blinded by tears ; and, partly to shake off thoughts 
and recollections, the indulgence in which she felt to be 
productive of no good, and partly to have some ideas to 
dwell upon during the coming week beyond those suggested 
by the constant view of the same room, she would carry her 
Bible, and place herself upon the window-seat on the wide 
landing, which commanded the street in front of the house. 
From thence she could see the irregular grandeur of the 
place; she caught a view of the grey church-tower, rising 
hoary and massive into mid-air ; she saw one or two figures 
loiter along on the sunny side of the street, in all the enjoy- 
ment of their fine clothes and Sunday leisure; and she 
imagined histories for them, and tried to picture to herself 
their homes and their daily doings. 

And, before long, the bells swung heavily in the church - 
tower, and struck out with musical clang the first summons 
to afternoon church. 

After church was over, she used to return home to the 
same window-seat, and watch till the winter twilight was 
over and gone, and the stars came out over the black masses 
of houses. And then she would steal down to ask for a 
candle, as a companion to her in the deserted workroom. 
Occasionally the servant would bring her up some tea ; but 
of late Ruth had declined taking any, as she had discovered 
she was robbing the kind-hearted creature of part of the 
small provision left out for her by Mrs. Mason. She sat on, 
hungry and cold, trying to read her Bible, and to think the 
old holy thoughts which had been her childish meditations 
at her mother’s knee, until one after another the apprentices 
returned, weary with their day’s enjoyment and their week’s 
late watching ; too weary to make her in any way a partaker 

34 


Sunday at Mrs. Mason’s 

of their pleasure by entering into details of the manner in 
which they had spent their day. 

And, last of all, Mrs. Mason returned ; and, summoning 
her “ young people ” once more into the parlour, she read a 
prayer before dismissing them to bed. She always expected 
to find them all in the house when she came home, but 
asked no questions as to their proceedings through the day ; 
perhaps because she dreaded to hear that one or two had 
occasionally nowhere to go to, and that it would be some- 
times necessary to order a Sunday’s dinner, and leave a 
lighted fire on that day. 

For five months Euth had been an inmate at Mrs. 
Mason’s ; and such had been the regular order of the 
Sundays. While the forewoman stayed there, it is true, she 
was ever ready to give Euth the little variety of hearing of 
recreations in which she was no partaker ; and, however tired 
Jenny might be at night, she had ever some sympathy to 
bestow on Euth for the dull length of day she had passed. 
After her departure, the monotonous idleness of the Sunday 
seemed worse to bear than the incessant labour of the work- 
days ; until the time came when it seemed to be a recognised 
hope in her mind, that on Sunday afternoons she should see 
Mr. Bellingham, and hear a few words from him as from a 
friend who took an interest in her thoughts and proceedings 
during the past week. 

Euth’s mother had been the daughter of a poor curate in 
Norfolk, and, early left without parents or home, she was 
thankful to marry a respectable farmer a good deal older 
than herself. After their marriage, however, everything 
seemed to go wrong. Mrs. Hilton fell into a delicate state 
of health, and was unable to bestow the ever-watchful 
attention to domestic affairs so requisite in a farmer’s wife. 
Her husband had a series of misfortunes — of a more impor- 
tant kind than the death of a whole brood of turkeys from 
getting among the nettles, or the year of bad cheeses spoilt 
by a careless dairymaid — which were the consequences (so 
the neighbours said) of Mr. Hilton’s mistake in marrying a 

35 


Ruth 

delicate fine lady. His crops failed; his horses died; his 
barn took fire : in short, if he had been in any way a remark- 
able character, one might have supposed him to be the 
object of an avenging fate, so successive were the evils 
which pursued him; but, as he was only a somewhat common- 
place farmer, I believe we must attribute his calamities to 
some want in his character of the one quality required to act 
as keystone to many excellences. While his wife lived, all 
worldly misfortunes seemed as nothing to him ; her strong 
sense and lively faculty of hope upheld him from despair ; 
her sympathy was always ready, and the invalid’s room had 
an atmosphere of peace and encouragement which affected 
all who entered it. But when Ruth was about twelve, one 
morning in the busy haytime, Mrs. Hilton was left alone for 
some hours. This had often happened before, nor had she 
seemed weaker than usual when they had gone forth to the 
field; but on their return, with merry voices, to fetch the 
dinner prepared for the haymakers, they found an unusual 
silence brooding over the house ; no low voice called out 
gently to welcome them, and ask after the day’s progress ; 
and, on entering the little parlour, which was called Mrs. 
Hilton’s, and was sacred to her, they found her lying dead 
on her accustomed sofa. Quite calm and peaceful she lay ; 
there had been no struggle at last ; the struggle was for the 
survivors, and one sank under it. Her husband did not 
make much ado at first — at least, not in outward show ; her 
memory seemed to keep in check all external violence of 
grief; but, day by day, dating from his wife’s death, his 
mental powers decreased. He was still a hale-looking 
elderly man, and his bodily health appeared as good as 
ever ; but he sat for hours in his easy-chair, looking into the 
fire, not moving, nor speaking, unless when it was absolutely 
necessary to answer repeated questions. If Ruth, with 
coaxings and draggings, induced him to come out with her, 
he went with measured steps around his fields, his head bent 
to the ground with the same abstracted, unseeing look ; never 
smiling— never changing the expression of his face, not even 

36 


Sunday at Mrs. Mason’s 

to one of deeper sadness, when anything occurred which 
might be supposed to remind him of his dead wife. But, in 
this abstraction from all outward things, his worldly affairs 
went ever lower down. He paid money away, or received 
it, as if it had been so much water ; the gold mines of Potosi 
could not have touched the deep grief of his soul ; but God in 
His mercy knew the sure balm, and sent the Beautiful 
Messenger to take the weary one home. 

After his death, the creditors were the chief people who 
appeared to take any interest in the affairs ; and it seemed 
strange to Buth to see people, whom she scarcely knew, 
examining and touching all that she had been accustomed 
to consider as precious and sacred. Her father had made 
his will at her birth. With the pride of newly and late- 
acquired paternity, he had considered the office of guardian 
to his little darling as one which would have been an 
additional honour to the lord-lieutenant of the county ; but 
as he had not the pleasure of his lordship’s acquaintance, he 
selected the person of most consequence amongst those 
whom he did know ; not any very ambitious appointment in 
those days of comparative prosperity; but certainly the 
flourishing maltster of Skelton was a little surprised, when, 
fifteen years later, he learnt that he was executor to a will 
bequeathing many vanished hundreds of pounds, and 
guardian to a young girl whom he could not remember ever 
to have seen. 

He was a sensible, hard-headed man of the world ; having 
a very fair proportion of conscience as consciences go ; 
indeed, perhaps more than many people ; for he had some 
ideas of duty extending to the circle beyond his own family, 
and did not, as some would have done, decline acting 
altogether, but speedily summoned the creditors, examined 
into the accounts, sold up the farming-stock, and discharged 
all the debts ; paid about £80 into the Skelton bank for a 
week, while he inquired for a situation or apprenticeship of 
some kind for poor heart-broken Ruth; heard of Mrs. 
Mason’s ; arranged all with her in two short conversations ; 

37 


Ruth 

drove over for Ruth in his gig ; waited while she and the old 
servant packed up her clothes ; and grew very impatient 
while she ran, with her eyes streaming with tears, round the 
garden, tearing off in a passion of love whole boughs of 
favourite China and damask roses, late flowering against the 
casement-window of what had been her mother’s room. 
When she took her seat in the gig, she was little able, even 
if she had been inclined, to profit by her guardian’s lectures 
on economy and self-reliance ; but she was quiet and silent, 
looking forward with longing to the night-time, when, in her 
bedroom, she might give way to all her passionate sorrow at 
being wrenched from the home where she had lived with her 
parents, in that utter absence of any anticipation of change, 
which is either the blessing or the curse of childhood. But 
at night there were four other girls in her room, and she 
could not cry before them. She watched and waited till, one 
by one, they dropped off to sleep, and. then she buried her face 
in the pillow, and shook with sobbing grief ; and then she 
paused to conjure up, with fond luxuriance, every recollec- 
tion of the happy days, so little valued in their uneventful 
peace while they lasted, so passionately regretted when once 
gone for ever ; to remember every look and word of the dear 
mother, and to moan afresh over the change caused by her 
death — the first clouding in of Ruth’s day of life. It was 
Jenny’s sympathy on this first night, when awakened by 
Ruth’s irrepressible agony, that had made the bond between 
them. But Ruth’s loving disposition, continually sending 
forth fibres in search of nutriment, found no other object for 
regard among those of her daily life to compensate for the 
want of natural ties. 

But, almost insensibly, Jenny’s place in Ruth’s heart 
was filled up ; there was some one who listened with tender 
interest to all her little revelations ; who questioned her 
about her early days of happiness, and, in return, spoke of 
his own childhood — not so golden in reality as Ruth’s, but 
more dazzling, when recounted with stories of the beautiful 
cream-coloured Arabian pony, and the old picture-gallery in 

38 


Sunday at Mrs. Mason’s 

the house, and avenues, and terraces, and fountains in the 
garden, for Euth to paint, with all the vividness of imagina- 
tion, as scenery and background for the figure which was 
growing by slow degrees most prominent in her thoughts. 

It must not be supposed that this was affected all at 
once, though the intermediate stages have been passed over. 
On Sunday, Mr. Bellingham only spoke to her to receive 
the information about the panel ; nor did he come to St. 
Nicholas’ the next, nor yet the following Sunday. But the 
third he walked by her side a little way, and, seeing her 
annoyance, he left her ; and then she wished for him back 
again, and found the day very dreary, and wondered why a 
strange, undefined feeling, had made her imagine she was 
doing wrong in walking alongside of one so kind and good 
as Mr. Bellingham ; it had been very foolish of her to be 
self-conscious all the time, and if ever he spoke to her again 
she would not think of what people might say, but enjoy 
the pleasure which his kind words and evident interest in 
her might give. Then she thought it was very likely he 
never would notice her again, for she knew she had been 
very rude with her short answers ; it was very provoking 
that she had behaved so rudely. She would be sixteen in 
another month, and she was still childish and awkward. 
Thus she lectured herself, after parting with Mr. Belling- 
ham ; and the consequence was, that on the following 
Sunday she was ten times as blushing and conscious, and 
(Mr. Bellingham thought) ten times more beautiful than 
ever. He suggested that, instead of going straight home 
through High Street, she should take the round by the 
Leasowes ; at first she declined, but then, suddenly wonder- 
ing and questioning herself why she refused a thing which 
was, as far as reason and knowledge ( her knowledge) went, 
so innocent, and which was certainly so tempting and 
pleasant, she agreed to go the round ; and, when she was 
once in the meadows that skirted the town, she forgot all 
doubt and awkwardness — nay, almost forgot the presence of 
Mr. Bellingham — in her delight at the new, tender beauty of 

39 


Ruth 

an early spring day in February. Among the last year’s 
brown ruins, heaped together by the wind in the hedgerows, 
she found the fresh, green, crinkled leaves and pale star-like 
flowers of the primroses. Here and there a golden celandine 
made brilliant the sides of the little brook that (full of water 
in “ February fill-dyke ”) bubbled along by the side of the 
path ; the sun was low in the horizon, and once, when they 
came to a higher part of the Leasowes, Ruth burst into an 
exclamation of delight at the evening glory of mellow light 
which was in the sky behind the purple distance, while the 
brown leafless woods in the foreground derived an almost 
metallic lustre from the golden mist and haze of sunset. It 
was but three-quarters of a mile round by the meadows, 
but somehow it took them an hour to walk it. Ruth turned 
to thank Mr. Bellingham for his kindness in taking her 
home by this beautiful way, but his look of admiration at 
her glowing, animated face, made her suddenly silent ; and, 
hardly wishing him good-bye, she quickly entered the house 
with a beating, happy, agitated heart. 

“ How strange it is,” she thought that evening, “ that I 
should feel as if this charming afternoon’s walk were, some- 
how, not exactly wrong, but yet as if it were not right. 
Why can it be ? I am not defrauding Mrs. Mason of any 
of her time ; that I know would be wrong ; I am left to go 
where I like on Sundays. I have been to church, so it can’t 
be because I have missed doing my duty. If I had gone 
this walk with Jenny, I wonder whether I should have felt 
as I do now. There must be something wrong in me, 
myself, to feel so guilty when I have done nothing which is 
not right ; and yet I can thank God for the happiness I have 
had in this charming spring walk, which dear mamma used 
to say was a sign when pleasures were innocent and good 
for us.” 

She was not conscious, as yet, that Mr. Bellingham’s 
presence had added any charm to the ramble; and when 
she might have become aware of this, as, week after week, 
Sunday after Sunday, loitering ramble after loitering ramble 

40 


Sunday at Mrs. Mason’s 

succeeded each other, she was too much absorbed with one 
set of thoughts to have much inclination for self-questioning. 

“ Tell me everything, Ruth, as you would to a brother ; 
let me help you, if I can, in your difficulties,” he said to her 
one afternoon. And he really did try to understand, and to 
realise, how an insignificant and paltry person like Mason 
the dressmaker could be an object of dread, and regarded as 
a person having authority, by Ruth. He flamed up with 
indignation when, by way of impressing him with Mrs. 
Mason’s power and consequence, Ruth spoke of some 
instance of the effects of her employer’s displeasure. He 
declared his mother should never have a gown made 
again by such a tyrant— such a Mrs. Brownrigg; that he 
would prevent all his acquaintances from going to such a 
cruel dressmaker ; till Ruth was alarmed at the threatened 
consequences of her one-sided account, and pleaded for 
Mrs. Mason as earnestly as if a young man’s menace of this 
description were likely to be literally fulfilled. 

“ Indeed, sir, I have been very wrong ; if you please, sir, 
don’t be so angry. She is often very good to us ; it is only 
sometimes she goes into a passion; and we are very provoking, 
I dare say. I know I am for one. I have often to undo 
my work, and you can’t think how it spoils anything 
(particularly silk) to be unpbked ; and Mrs. Mason has to 
bear all the blame. Oh ! I am sorry I said anything about 
it. Don’t speak to your mother about it, pray, sir. Mrs. 
Mason thinks so much of Mrs. Bellingham’s custom.” 

“ Well, I won’t this time ” — recollecting that there might 
be some awkwardness in accounting to his mother for the 
means by which he had obtained his very correct informa- 
tion as to what passed in Mrs. Mason’s workroom, “ but, if 
ever she does so again, I’ll not answer for myself.” 

“ I will take care and not tell again, sir,” said Ruth, in a 
low voice. 

“ Nay, Ruth, you are not going to have secrets from me, 
are you ? Don’t you remember your promise to consider 
me as a brother ? Go on telling me everything that happens 

4i 


Ruth 

to you, pray ; you cannot think how much interest I take 
in all your interests. I can quite fancy that charming home 
at Milham you told me about last Sunday. I can almost 
fancy Mrs. Mason’s workroom ; and that, surely, is a proof 
either of the strength of my imagination, or of your powers 
of description.” 

Euth smiled. “It is, indeed, ^ir. Our workroom must be 
so different to anything you ever saw. I think you must 
have passed through Milham often on your way to Low- 
ford.” 

“ Then you don’t think it is any stretch of fancy to have 
so clear an idea as I have of Milham Grange ? On the left 
hand of the road, is it, Euth ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, just over the bridge, and up the hill where the 
elm-trees meet overhead and make a green shade ; and then 
comes the dear old Grange, that I shall never see again.” 

“Never! Nonsense, Euthie ; it is only six miles off; 
you may see it any day. It is not an hour’s ride.” 

“ Perhaps I may see it again when I am grown old ; I 
did not think exactly what ‘ never ’ meant ; it is so very long 
since I was there, and I don’t see any chance of my going 
for years and years at any rate.” 

“ Why, Euth, you — we may go next Sunday afternoon, 
if you like.” 

She looked up at him with a lovely light of pleasure in 
her face at the idea. “ How, sir ? Can I walk it between 
afternoon-service and the time Mrs. Mason comes home ? I 
would go for only one glimpse ; but if I could get into the 
house — oh, sir ! if I could just see mamma’s room again ! ” 

He was revolving plans in his head for giving her this 
pleasure, and he had also his own in view. If they went in 
any of his carriages, the loitering charm of the walk would 
be lost ; and they must, to a certain degree, be encumbered 
by, and exposed to the notice of servants. 

“ Are you a good walker, Euth ? Do you think you can 
manage six miles ? If we set off at two o’clock, we shall 
be there by four, without hurrying ; or say half -past four. 

42 


Sunday at Mrs. Mason’s 

Then we might stay two hours, and you could show me all 
the old walks and old places you love, and we could still 
come leisurely home. Oh, it’s all arranged directly ! ” 

“ But do you think it would be right, sir ? It seems as 
if it would be such a great pleasure, that it must be in some 
way wrong.” 

“ Why, you little goose, what can be wrong in it ? ” 

“ In the first place, I miss going to church by setting out 
at two,” said Ruth, a little gravely. 

“ Only for once. Surely you don’t see any harm in 
missing church for once ? You will go in the morning, you 
know.” 

“ I wonder if Mrs. Mason would think it right — if she 
would allow it ? ’ 

“ No, I dare say not. But you don’t mean to be governed 
by Mrs. Mason’s notions of right and wrong. She thought 
it right to treat that poor girl Palmer in the way you told 
me about. You would think that wrong, you know, and so 
would every one of sense and feeling. Come, Ruth, don’t pin 
your faith on any one, but judge for yourself. The pleasure 
is perfectly innocent : it is not a selfish pleasure either, for 
I shall enjoy it to the full as much as you will. I shall like 
to see the places where you spent your childhood ; I shall 
almost love them as much as you do.” He had dropped 
his voice ; and spoke in low, persuasive tones. Ruth hung 
down her head, and blushed with exceeding happiness ; but 
she could not speak, even to urge her doubts afresh. Thus 
it was in a manner settled. 

How delightfully happy the plan made her through the 
coming week ! She was too young when her mother died 
to have received any cautions or words of advice respecting 
the subject of a woman’s life — if, indeed, wise parents ever 
directly speak of what, in its depth and power, cannot be 
put into words — which is a brooding spirit with no definite 
form or shape that men should know it, but which is there, 
and present before we have recognised and realised its 
existence. Ruth was innocent and snow-pure. She had 

43 


Ruth 

heard of falling in love, but did not know the signs and 
symptoms thereof ; nor, indeed, had she troubled her head 
much about them. Sorrow had filled up her days, to the 
exclusion of all lighter thoughts than the consideration of 
present duties, and the remembrance of the happy time 
which had been. But the interval of blank, after the loss 
of her mother and during her father’s life-in-death, had made 
her all the more ready to value and cling to sympathy — first 
from Jenny, and now from Mr. Bellingham. To see her 
home again, and to see it with him ; to show him (secure of 
his interest) the haunts of former times, each with its little 
tale of the past — of dead-and-gone events ! — No coming 
shadow threw its gloom over this week’s dream of happiness 
— a dream which was too bright to be spoken about to 
common and indifferent ears. 


CHAPTER IY 

TREADING IN PERILOUS PLACES 

Sunday came, as brilliant as if there were no sorrow, or 
death, or guilt in the world ; a day or two of rain had made 
the earth fresh and brave as the blue heavens above. Ruth 
thought it was too strong a realisation of her hopes, and 
looked for an over-clouding at noon ; but the glory endured, 
and at two o’clock she was in the Leasowes, with a beating 
heart full of joy, longing to stop the hours, which would 
pass too quickly through the afternoon. 

They sauntered through the fragrant lanes, as if their 
loitering would prolong the time s?,nd check the fiery-footed 
steeds galloping apace towards the close of the happy day. 
It was past five o’clock before they came to the great mill- 
wheel, which stood in Sabbath idleness, motionless in a 
brown mass of shade, and still wet with yesterday’s im- 
mersion in the deep transparent water beneath. They 

44 


Treacling in Perilous Places 

clambered the little hill, not yet fully shaded by the over- 
arching elms ; and then Euth checked Mr. Bellingham, by 
a slight motion of the hand which lay within his arm, and 
glanced up into his face to see what that face should express 
as it looked on Milham Grange, now lying still and peaceful 
in its afternoon shadows. It was a house of after-thoughts ; 
building materials were plentiful in the neighbourhood, and 
every successive owner had found a necessity for some 
addition or projection, till it was a picturesque mass of 
irregularity — of broken light and shadow — which, as a 
whole, gave a full and complete idea of a “ Home.” All 
its gables and nooks were blended and held together by the 
tender green of the climbing roses and young creepers. An 
old couple were living in the house until it should be let, 
but they dwelt in the back part, and never used the front 
door ; so the little birds had grown tame and familiar, and 
perched upon the window-sills and porch, and on the old 
stone cistern which caught the water from the roof. 

They went silently through the untrimmed garden, full 
of the pale-coloured flowers of spring. A spider had spread 
her web over the front door. The sight of this conveyed a 
sense of desolation to Euth’s heart ; she thought it was 
possible the state- entrance had never been used since her 
father’s dead body had been borne forth, and without 
speaking a word, she turned abruptly away, and went round 
the house to another door. Mr. Bellingham followed without 
questioning, little understanding her feelings, but full of ad- 
miration for the varying expression called out upon her face. 

The old woman had not yet returned from church, or 
from the weekly gossip or neighbourly tea which succeeded. 
The husband sat in the kitchen, spelling the psalms for the 
day in his Prayer-book, and reading the words out aloud — a 
habit he had acquired from the double solitude of his life, for 
he was deaf. He did not hear the quiet entrance of the 
pair, and they were struck with the sort of ghostly echo 
which seems to haunt half-furnished and uninhabited houses. 
The verses he was reading were the following : — 

45 


Ruth 

“ Why art thou so vexed, O my soul : and why art thou 
so disquieted within me ? 

“ O put thy trust in God : for I will yet thank him, which 
is the help of my countenance, and my God.” 

And when he had finished he shut the book, and sighed 
with the satisfaction of having done his duty. The words 
of holy trust, though, perhaps, they were not fully understood, 
carried a faithful peace down Aito the depths of his soul. 
As he looked up, he saw the young couple standing in the 
middle of the floor. He pushed his iron-rimmed spectacles 
on to his forehead, and rose to greet the daughter of his old 
master and ever-honoured mistress. 

“ God bless thee, lass ! God bless thee ! My old eyes 
are glad to see thee again.” 

Euth sprang forward to shake the horny hand stretched 
forward in the action of blessing. She pressed it between 
both of hers, as she rapidly poured out questions. Mr. 
Bellingham was not altogether comfortable at seeing one 
whom he had already begun to appropriate as his own, so 
tenderly familiar with a hard-featured, meanly-dressed day- 
labourer. He sauntered to the window, and looked out into 
the grass- grown farmyard ; but he could not help overhearing 
some of the conversation, which seemed to him carried on 
too much in the tone of equality. “ And who’s yon ? ” asked 
the old labourer at last. “ Is he your sweetheart ? Your 
missis’s son, I reckon. He’s a spruce young chap, anyhow.” 

Mr. Bellingham’s “ blood of all the Howards ” rose and 
tingled about his ears, so that he could not hear Euth’s 
answer. It began by “ Hush, Thomas ; pray hush ! ” but 
how it went on he did not catch. The idea of his being Mrs. 
Mason’s son ! It was really too ridiculous ; but, like most 
things which are “ too ridiculous,” it made him very angry. 
He was hardly himself again when Euth shyly came to the 
window-recess and asked him if he would like to see the 
house-place, into which the front-door entered ; many people 
thought it very pretty, she said, half-timidly, for his face had 
unconsciously assumed a hard and haughty expression, 

46 


Treading in Perilous Places 

which he could not instantly soften down. He followed 
her, however ; but before he left the kitchen he saw the old 
man standing, looking at Ruth’s companion with a strange, 
grave air of dissatisfaction. 

They went along one or two zig-zag damp-smelling stone 
passages, and then entered the house-place, or common 
sitting-room for a farmer’s family in that part of the oountry. 
The front door opened into it, and several other apartments 
issued out of it, such as the dairy, the state bedroom (which 
was half-parlour as well), and a small room which had been 
appropriated to the late Mrs. Hilton, where she sat, or more 
frequently lay, commanding through the open door the 
comings and goings of her household. In those days the 
house-place had been a cheerful room, full of life, with the 
passing to and fro of husband, child, and servants ; with a 
great merry wood-fire crackling and blazing away every 
evening, and hardly let out in the very heat of summer ; for 
with the thick stone walls, and the deep window- seats, and 
the drapery of vine-leaves and ivy, that room, with its flag- 
floor, seemed always to want the sparkle and cheery warmth 
of a fire. But now the green shadows from without seemed 
to have become black in the uninhabited desolation. The 
oaken shovel-board, the heavy dresser, and the carved 
cupboards, were now dull and damp, which were formerly 
polished up to the brightness of a looking-glass where the 
fire-blaze was for ever glinting ; they only added to the 
oppressive gloom ; the flag-floor was wet with heavy 
moisture. Ruth stood gazing into the room, seeing nothing 
of what was present. She saw a vision of former days — an 
evening in the days of her childhood ; her father sitting in 
the “ master’s comer ” near the fire, sedately smoking his 
pipe, while he dreamily watched his wife and child; her 
mother reading to her, as she sat on a little stool at her feet. 
It was gone — all gone into the land of shadows ; but for the 
moment it seemed so present in the old room, that Ruth 
believed her actual life to be the dream. Then, still silent, 
she went on into her mother’s parlour. But there, the bleak 

47 


Ruth 

look of what had once been full of peace and mother’s love, 
struck cold on her heart. She uttered a cry, and threw 
herself down by the sofa, hiding her face in her hands, while, 
her frame quivered with her repressed sobs. 

“ Dearest Ruth, don’t give way so. It can do no good ; 
it cannot bring bring back the dead,” said Mr. Bellingham, 
distressed at witnessing her distress. 

“ I know it cannot,” murmuifcd Ruth ; “ and that is why 
I cry. I cry because nothing will ever bring them back 
again.” She sobbed afresh, but more gently, for his kind 
words soothed her, and softened, if they could not take 
away, her sense of desolation. 

“ Gome away ; I cannot have you stay here, full of 
painful associations as these rooms must be. Come ” — 
raising her with gentle violence — “ show me your little 
garden you have often told me about. Near the window 
of this very room, is it not? See how well I remember 
everything you tell me.” 

He led her round through the back part of the house 
into the pretty old-fashioned garden. There was a sunny 
border just under the windows, and clipped box and yew- 
trees by the grass-plat, further away from the house ; and 
she prattled again of her childish adventures and solitary 
plays. When they turned round they saw the old man, 
who had hobbled out with the help of his stick, and was 
looking at them with the same grave, sad look of anxiety. 

Mr. Bellingham spoke rather sharply — 

“ Why does that old man follow us about in that way ? 
It is excessively impertinent of him, I think.” 

“ Oh, don’t call old Thomas impertinent. He is so good 
and kind, he is like a father to me. I remember sitting on 
his knee many and many a time when I was a child, whilst 
he told me stories out of the * Pilgrim’s Progress.’ He 
taught me to suck up milk through a straw. Mamma was 
very fond of him, too. He used to sit with us always in 
the evenings when papa was away at market, for mamma 
was rather afraid of having no man in the house, and used 

48 


Treading in Perilous Places 

to beg old Thomas to stay ; and he would take me on his 
knee, and listen just as attentively as I did while mamma 
read aloud.” 

“ You don’t mean to say you have sat upon that old 
fellow’s knee ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! many and many a time.” 

Mr. Bellingham looked graver than he had done while 
witnessing Ruth’s passionate emotion in her mother’s room. 
But he lost his sense of indignity in admiration of his com- 
panion as she wandered among the flowers, seeking for 
favourite bushes or plants, to which some history or remem- 
brance was attached. She wound in and out in natural, 
graceful, wavy lines between the luxuriant and overgrown 
shrubs, which were fragrant with a leafy smell of spring 
growth; she went on, careless of watching eyes, indeed 
unconscious, for the time, of their existence. Once she 
stopped to take hold of a spray of jessamine, and softly kiss 
it ; it had been her mother’s favourite flower. 

Old Thomas was standing by the horse-mount, and was 
also an observer of all her goings-on. But, while Mr. Bell- 
ingham’s feeling was that of passionate admiration mingled 
with a selfish kind of love, the old man gazed with tender 
anxiety, and his lips moved in words of blessing— 

“ She’s a pretty creature, with a glint of her mother 
about her; and she’s the same kind lass as ever. Not a 
bit set up with yon fine manty-maker’s shop she’s in. I 
misdoubt that young fellow though, for all she called him a 
real gentleman, and checked me when I asked if he was 
her sweetheart. If his are not sweetheart’s looks, I’ve 
forgotten all my young days. Here ! they’re going, I sup- 
pose. Look ! he wants her to go without a word to the old 
man ; but she is none so changed as that, I reckon.” 

Not Ruth, indeed ! She never perceived the dissatisfied 
expression of Mr. Bellingham’s countenance, visible to the 
old man’s keen eye; but came running up to Thomas to 
send her love to his wife, and to shake him many times by 
the hand. 


49 


E 


Ruth 

“ Tell Mary I’ll make her such a fine gown, as soon as 
ever I set up for myself ; it shall be all in the fashion, big 
gigot sleeves, that she shall not know herself in them ! 
Mind you tell her that, Thomas, will you ? ” 

“ Ay, that I will, lass ; and I reckon she’ll be pleased to 
hear thou hast not forgotten thy old merry ways. The Lord 
bless thee — the Lord lift up the light of His countenance 
upon thee.” * 

Euth was half-way towards the impatient Mr. Bellingham 
when her old friend called her back. He longed to give her 
a warning of the danger that he thought she was in, and 
yet he did not know how. When she came up, all he could 
think of to say was a text; indeed, the language of the 
Bible was the language in which he thought, whenever his 
ideas went beyond practical everyday life into expressions 
of emotion or feeling. “ My dear, remember the devil goeth 
about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour ; 
remember that, Euth.” 

The words fell on her ear, but gave no definite idea. 
The utmost they suggested was the remembrance of the 
dread she felt as a child when this verse came into her 
mind, and how she used to imagine a lion’s head with 
glaring eyes peering out of the bushes in a dark shady part 
of the wood, which, for this reason, she had always avoided, 
and even now could hardly think of without a shudder. 
She never imagined that the grim warning related to the 
handsome young man who awaited her with a countenance 
beaming with love, and tenderly drew her hand within his 
arm. 

The old man sighed as he watched them away. “ The 
Lord may help her to guide her steps aright. He may. 
But I’m afeard she’s treading in perilous places. I’ll put 
my missis up to going to the town and getting speech of 
her, and telling her a bit of her danger. An old motherly 
woman like our Mary will set about it better nor a stupid 
fellow like me.” 

The poor old labourer prayed long and earnestly that 

5 ° 


Treading in Perilous Places 

night for Ruth. He called it “ wrestling for her soul ; ” and 
I think that his prayers were heard, for “ God judgeth not 
as man judgeth.” 

Ruth went on her way, all unconscious of the dark 
phantoms of the future that were gathering around her; 
her melancholy turned, with the pliancy of childish years, 
at sixteen not yet lost, into a softened manner which was 
infinitely charming. By-and-by she cleared up into sunny 
happiness. The evening was still and full of mellow light, 
and the new-born summer was so delicious that, in common 
with all young creatures, she shared its influence and was 
glad. 

They stood together at the top of a steep ascent, “ the 
hill ” of the hundred. At the summit there was a level 
space, sixty or seventy yards square, of unenclosed and 
broken ground, over which the golden bloom of the gorse 
cast a rich hue, while its delicious scent perfumed the fresh 
and nimble air. On one side of this common, the ground 
sloped down to a clear bright pond, in which were mirrored 
the rough sand- cliffs that rose abrupt on the opposite 
bank ; hundreds of martens found a home there, and were 
now wheeling over the transparent water, and dipping in 
their wings in their evening sport. Indeed, all sorts of 
birds seemed to haunt the lonely pool ; the water-wagtails 
were scattered around its margin, the linnets perched on 
the topmost sprays of the gorse-bushes, and other hidden 
warblers sang their vespers on the uneven ground beyond. 
On the far side of the green waste, close by the road, and 
well placed for the requirements of horses or their riders 
who might be weary with the ascent of the hill, there was 
a public-house, which was more of a farm than an inn. It 
was a long, low building, rich in dormer-windows on the 
weather side, which were necessary in such an exposed 
situation, and with odd projections and unlooked-for gables 
on every side ; there was a deep porch in front, on whose 
hospitable benches a dozen persons might sit and enjoy the 
balmy air, A noble sycamore grew right before the house, 

5i ' 


Ruth 

with seats all round it (“ such tents the patriarchs loved ”) ; 
and a nondescript sign hung from a branch on the side 
next to the road, which, being wisely furnished with an 
interpretation, was found to mean King Charles in the oak. 

Near this comfortable, quiet, unfrequented inn, there 
was another pond, for household and farmyard purposes, 
from which the cattle were drinking, before returning to 
the fields after they had been milked. Their very motions 
were so lazy and slow, that they served to fill up the mind 
with the sensation of dreamy rest. Ruth and Mr. Belling- 
ham plunged through the broken ground to regain the road 
near the wayside inn. Hand-in-hand, now pricked by the 
far-spreading gorse, now ankle-deep in sand ; now pressing 
the soft, thick heath, which should make so brave an autumn 
show ; and now over wild thyme and other fragrant herbs, 
they made their way, with many a merry laugh. Once on 
the road, at the summit, Ruth stood silent, in breathless 
delight at the view before her. The hill fell suddenly down 
into the plain, extending for a dozen miles or more. There 
was a clump of dark Scotch firs close to them, which cut 
clear against the western sky, and threw back the nearest 
levels into distance. The plain below them was richly 
wooded, and was tinted by the young tender hues of the 
earliest summer, for all the trees of the wood had donned 
their leaves except the cautious ash, which here and there 
gave a soft, pleasant greyness to the landscape. Far away 
in the champaign were spires, and towers, and stacks of 
chimneys belonging to some distant hidden farmhouse, 
which were traced downwards through the golden air by 
the thin columns of blue smoke sent up from the evening 
fires. The view was bounded by some rising ground in 
deep purple shadow against the sunset sky. 

When first they stopped, silent with sighing pleasure, the 
air seemed full of pleasant noises ; distant church-bells made 
harmonious music with the little singing-birds near at hand ; 
nor were the lowings of the cattle nor the calls of the farm- 
servants discordant, for the voices seemed to be hushed by the 

5 2 


Treading in Perilous Places 

brooding consciousness of the Sabbath. They stood loitering 
before the house, quietly enjoying the view. The clock in 
the little inn struck eight, and it sounded clear and sharp in 
the stillness. 

“ Can it be so late ? ” asked Ruth. 

“ 1 should not have thought it possible,” answered Mr. 
Bellingham. “But, never mind, you will be at home long 
before nine. Stay, there is a shorter road, I know, through 
the fields ; just wait a moment, while I go in and ask the 
exact way.” He dropped Ruth’s arm, and went into the 
public-house. 

A gig had been slowly toiling up the sandy hill behind, 
unperceived by the young couple, and now it reached the 
tableland, and was close upon them as they separated. Ruth 
turned round, when the sound of the horse’s footsteps came 
distinctly as he reached the level. She faced Mrs. Mason ! 

They were not ten — no, not five yards apart. At the same 
moment they recognised each other, and, what was worse, 
Mrs. Mason had clearly seen, with her sharp, needle-like eyes, 
the attitude in which Ruth had stood with the young man 
who had just quitted her. Ruth’s hand had been lying in 
his arm, and fondly held there by his other hand. 

Mrs. Mason was careless about the circumstances of 
temptation into which the girls entrusted to her as appren- 
tices were thrown, but severely intolerant if their conduct 
was in any degree influenced by the force of these tempta- 
tions. She called this intolerance “ keeping up the character 
of her establishment.” It would have been a better and 
more Christian thing if she had kept up the character of her 
girls by tender vigilance and maternal care. 

This evening, too, she was in an irritated state of temper. 
Her brother had undertaken to drive her round by Henbury, 
in order to give her the unpleasant information of the mis- 
behaviour of her eldest son, who was an assistant in a draper’s 
shop in a neighbouring town. She was full of indignation 
against want of steadiness, though not willing to direct her 
indignation against the right object —her ne’er-do-weel darling. 

53 


Ruth 

While she was thus charged with anger (for her brother 
justly defended her son’s master and companions from her 
attacks), she saw Ruth standing with a lover, far away from 
home, at such a time in the evening, and she boiled over 
with intemperate displeasure. 

“ Come here directly, Miss Hilton,” she exclaimed sharply. 
Then, dropping her voice to low, bitter tones of concentrated 
wrath, she said to the trembling, guilty Ruth — 

“ Don’t attempt to show your face at my house again 
after this conduct. I saw you, and your spark too. I’ll 
have no slurs on the character of my apprentices. Don’t 
say a word. I saw enough. I shall write and tell your 
guardian to-morrow.” 

The horse started away, for he was impatient to be off ; 
and Ruth was left standing there, stony, sick, and pale, as 
if the lightning had torn up the ground beneath her feet. 
She could not go on standing, she was so sick and faint ; 
she staggered back to the broken sand- bank, and sank down, 
and covered her face with her hands. 

“ My dearest Ruth ! are you ill ? Speak, darling ! My 
love, my love, do speak to me ! ” 

What tender words after such harsh ones ! They loosened 
the fountain of Ruth’s tears, and she cried bitterly. 

“ Oh ! did you see her — did you hear what she said ? ” 

“ She ! Who, my darling ? Don’t sob so, Ruth ; tell me 
what it is. Who has been near you ?• — who has been 
speaking to you to make you cry so ? ” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Mason.” And there was a fresh burst of 
sorrow.* 

“ You don’t say so ! are you sure ? I was not away five 
minutes.” 

“ Oh, yes, sir, I’m quite sure. She was so angry ; she 
said I must never show my face there again. Oh, dear ! 
what shall I do ? ” 

It seemed to the poor child as if Mrs. Mason’s words were 
irrevocable, and, that being so, she was shut out from every 
house. She saw how much she had done that was deserving 

54 


Treading in Perilous Places 

of blame, now when it was too late to undo it. She knew 
with what severity and taunts Mrs. Mason had often treated 
her for involuntary failings, of which she had been quite un- 
conscious ; and now she had really done wrong, and shrank 
with terror from the consequences. Her eyes were so blinded 
by the fast-falling tears, she did not see (nor, had she seen, 
would she have been able to interpret) the change in Mr. 
Bellingham’s countenance, as he stood silently watching her. 
He was silent so long, that even in her sorrow she began 
to wonder that he did not speak, and to wish to hear his 
soothing words once more. 

“ It is very unfortunate,” he began, at last ; and then he 
stopped ; then he began again : “ It is very unfortunate ; for, 
you see, I did not like to name it to you before, but, I believe 
— I have business, in fact, which obliges me to go to town 
to-morrow — to London, I mean ; and I don’t know when I 
shall be able to return.” 

“ To London ! ” cried Ruth ; “ are you going away ? Oh, 
Mr. Bellingham ! ” She wept afresh, giving herself up to the 
desolate feeling of sorrow, which absorbed all the terror she 
had been experiencing at the idea of Mrs. Mason’s anger. 
It seemed to her at this moment as though she could have 
borne everything but his departure; but she did not speak 
again ; and, after two or three minutes had elapsed, he spoke 
— not in his natural careless voice, but in a sort of con- 
strained, agitated tone. 

“ I can hardly bear the idea of leaving you, my own 
Ruth. In such distress, too ; for where you can go I do not 
know at all. From all you have told me of Mrs. Mason, I 
don’t think she is likely to mitigate her severity in your 
case.” 

No answer, but tears quietly, incessantly flowing. Mrs. 
Mason’s displeasure seemed a distant thing ; his going away 
was the present distress. He went on — 

“ Ruth, would you go with me to London ? My darling, 
I cannot leave you here without a home ; the thought of 
leaving you at all is pain enough, but in these circumstances 

55 


Ruth 

— so friendless, so homeless — it is impossible. You must 
come with me, love, and trust to me.” 

Still she did not speak. Eemember how young, and inno- 
cent, and motherless she was ! It seemed to her as if it 
would be happiness enough to be with him ; and as for the 
future, he would arrange and decide for that. The future 
lay wrapped in a golden mist, which she did not care to 
penetrate ; but if he, her sun, ^was out of sight and gone, 
the golden mist became dark heavy gloom, through which 
no hope could come. He took her hand. 

“ Will you not come with me ? Do you not love me 
enough to trust me ? Oh, Euth (reproachfully), can you not 
trust me ? ” 

She had stopped crying, but was sobbing sadly. 

“ I cannot bear this, love. Your sorrow is absolute pain 
to me ; but it is worse to feel how indifferent you are — how 
little you care about our separation.” 

He dropped her hand. She burst into a fresh fit of crying. 

“ I may have to join my mother in Paris ; I don’t know 
when I shall see you again. Oh, Euth ! ” said he vehemently, 
“ do you love me at all ? ” 

She said something in a very low voice ; he could not 
hear it, though he bent down his head — but he took her 
hand again. 

“ What was it you said, love ? Was it not that you did 
love me ? My darling, you do ! I can tell it by the trembling 
of this little hand ; then you will not suffer me to go away 
alone and unhappy, most anxious about you ? There is no 
other course open to you ; my poor girl has no friends to re- 
ceive her. I will go home directly, and return in an hour with 
a carriage. You make me too happy by your silence, Euth.” 

“ Oh, what can I do ? ” exclaimed Euth. “ Mr. Belling- 
ham, you should help me, and instead of that you only 
bewilder me.” 

“ How, my dearest Euth ? Bewilder you ! It seems so 
clear to me. Look at the case fairly! Here you are, an 
orphan, with only one person to love you, poor child — thrown 

56 


Treading in Perilous Places 

off, for no fault of yours, by the only creature on whom you 
have a claim, that creature a tyrannical, inflexible woman ; 
what is more natural (and, being natural, more right) than 
that you should throw yourself upon the care of the one who 
loves you dearly — who would go through fire and water for 
you — who would shelter you from all harm ? Unless, indeed, 
as I suspect, you do not care for him. If so, Euth, if you 
do not care for me, we had better part — I will leave you 
at once ; it will be better for me to go, if you do not care 
for me.” 

He said this very sadly (it seemed so to Euth, at least), 
and made as though he would have drawn his hand from 
hers ; but now she held it with soft force. 

“ Don’t leave me, please, sir. It is very true I have no 
friend but you. Don’t leave me, please. But, oh ! do tell 
me what I must do ! ” 

“ Will you do it if I tell you ? If you will trust me, I will 
do my very best for you. I will give you my best advice. 
You see your position : Mrs. Mason writes and gives her own 
exaggerated account to your guardian ; he is bound by no 
great love to you, from what I have heard you say, and 
throws you off; I, who might be able to befriend you — 
through my mother, perhaps — I, who could at least comfort 
you a little (could not I, Euth ?), am away, far away, for an 
indefinite time; that is your position at present. Now, 
what I advise is this. Come with me into this little inn; 
I will order tea for you — (I am sure you require it sadly) — 
and I will leave you there, and go home for the carriage. I 
will return in an hour at the latest. Then we are together, 
come what may ; that is enough for me ; is it not for you, 
Ruth ? Say yes — say it ever so low, but give me the delight 
of hearing it. Euth, say yes.” 

Low and soft, with much hesitation, came the “ Yes ; ” 
the fatal word of which she so little imagined the infinite 
consequences. The thought of being with him was all and 
everything. 

“ How you tremble, my darling ! You are cold, love ! 

57 


Ruth 


Come into the house, and I’ll order tea directly, and be 
off.” 

She rose, and, leaning on his arm, went into the house. 
She was shaking and dizzy with the agitation of the last 
hour. He spoke to the civil farmer-landlord, who conducted 
them into a neat parlour, with windows opening into the 
garden at the back of the house. They had admitted much 
of the evening’s fragrance through their open casements 
before they were hastily closed by the attentive host. 

“ Tea, directly, for this lady ! ” The landlord vanished. 

“ Dearest Ruth, I must go ; there is not an instant to be 
lost. Promise me to take some tea, for you are shivering all 
over, and deadly pale with the fright that abominable woman 
has given you. I must go; I shall be back in half-an- 
hour — and then no more partings, darling.” 

He kissed her pale cold face, and went away. The room 
whirled round before Ruth; it was a dream — a strange, 
varying, shifting dream — with the old home of her childhood 
for one scene, with the terror of Mrs. Mason’s unexpected 
appearance for another ; and then, strangest, dizziest, happi- 
est of all, there was the consciousness of his love, who was 
all the world to her, and the remembrance of the tender 
words, which still kept up their low soft echo in her heart. 

Her head ached so much that she could hardly see ; even 
the dusky twilight was a dazzling glare to her poor eyes ; 
and when the daughter of the house brought in the sharp 
light of the candles, preparatory for tea, Ruth hid her face in 
the sofa pillows with a low exclamation of pain. 

“ Does your head ache, miss ? ” asked the girl, in a 
gentle, sympathising voice. “ Let me make you some tea, 
miss, it will do you good. Many’s the time poor mother’s 
headaches were cured by good strong tea.” 

Ruth murmured acquiescence; the young girl (about 
Ruth’s own age, but who was the mistress of the little estab- 
lishment owing to her mother’s death) made tea, and brought 
Ruth a cup to the sofa where she lay. Ruth was feverish 
and thirsty, and eagerly drank it off, although she could not 

58 


Treading in Perilous Places 

touch the bread and butter which the girl offered her. She 
felt better and fresher, though she was still faint and weak. 

“ Thank you,” said Ruth. “ Don’t let me keep you, 
perhaps you are busy. You have been very kind, and the 
tea has done me a great deal of good.” 

The girl left the room. Ruth became as hot as she had 
previously been cold, and went and opened the window^, and 
leant out into the still, sweet, evening air, The bush of 
sweet-brier underneath the window scented the place, and 
the delicious fragrance reminded her of her old home. I 
think scents affect and quicken the memory more than either 
sights or sound ; for Ruth had instantly before her eyes the 
little garden beneath the window of her mother’s room with 
the old man leaning on his stick watching her, just as he 
had done not three hours before on that very afternoon. 

“ Dear old Thomas ! he and Mary would take me in, I 
think ; they would love me all the more if I were cast off. 
And Mr. Bellingham would, perhaps, not be so very long 
away ; and he would know where to find me if I stayed at 
Milham Grange. Oh, would it not be better to go to them ? 
I wonder if he would be very sorry ! I could not bear to 
make him sorry, so kind as he has been to me ; but I do 
believe it would be better to go to them, and ask their advice, 
at any rate. He would follow me there ; and I could talk 
over what I had better do, with the three best friends I have 
in the world — the only friends I have.” 

She put on her bonnet, and opened the parlour-door ; but 
then she saw the square figure of the landlord standing at 
the open house-door, smoking his evening pipe, and looming 
large and distinct against the dark air and landscape beyond. 
Ruth remembered the cup of tea she had drunk ; it must be 
paid for, and she had no money with her. She feared that 
he would not let her quit the house without paying. She 
thought that she would leave a note for Mr. Bellingham, 
saying where she was gone, and how she had left the house 
in debt, for (like a child) all dilemmas appeared of equal 
magnitude to her ; and the difficulty of passing the landlord 

59 


Ruth 

while he stood there, and of giving him an explanation of 
the circumstances (as far as such explanation was due to 
him), appeared insuperable, and as awkward and fraught 
with inconvenience as far more serious situations. She kept 
peeping out of her room, after she had written her little 
pencil-note, to see if the outer door was still obstructed. 
There he stood, motionless, enjoying his pipe, and looking 
out into the darkness which gathered thick with the coming 
night. The fumes of the tobacco were carried by the air 
into the house, and brought back Ruth’s sick headache. 
Her energy left her; she became stupid and languid, and 
incapable of spirited exertion ; she modified her plan of 
action, to the determination of asking Mr. Bellingham to 
take her to Milham Grange, to the care of her humble 
friends, instead of to London. And she thought, in her 
simplicity, that he would instantly consent when he had 
heard her reasons. 

She started up. A carriage dashed up to the door. She 
hushed her beating heart, and tried to stop her throbbing 
head, to listen. She heard him speaking to the landlord, 
though she could not distinguish what he said : heard the 
jingling of money, and in another moment he was in the 
room, and had taken her arm to lead her to the carriage. 

“ Oh, sir, I want you to take me to Milham Grange,” 
said she, holding back ; “ old Thomas would give me a 
home.” 

“ Well, dearest, we’ll talk of all that in the carriage ; I 
am sure you will listen to reason. Nay, if you will go to 
Milham, you must go in the carriage,” said he hurriedly. 
She was little accustomed to oppose the wishes of any one ; 
obedient and docile by nature, and unsuspicious and innocent 
of any harmful consequences. She entered the carriage, 
and drove towards London. 


60 


In North Wales 


CHAPTEE V 

IN NORTH WALES 

The June of 18 — had been glorious and sunny, and full of 
flowers ; but July came in with pouring rain, and it was a 
gloomy time for travellers and for weather-bound tourists, 
who lounged away the days in touching up sketches, dressing 
flies, and reading over again, for the twentieth time, the few 
volumes they had brought with them. A number of the 
Times, five days old, had been in constant demand in all the 
sitting-rooms of a certain inn in a little mountain village of 
North Wales, through a long July morning. The valleys 
around were filled with thick, cold mist, which had crept up 
the hillsides till the hamlet itself was folded in its white, 
dense curtain, and from the inn-windows nothing was seen 
of the beautiful scenery around. The tourists who thronged 
the rooms might as well have been “ wi’ their dear little 
bairnies at hame ; ” and so some of them seemed to think, 
as they stood, with their faces flattened against the window- 
panes, looking abroad in search of an event to fil 1 up the 
dreary time. How many dinners were hastened that day, 
by way of getting through the morning, let the poor Welsh 
kitchenmaid say ! The very village children kept indoors ; 
or, if one or two more adventurous stole out into the land of 
temptation and puddles, they were soon clutched back by 
angry and busy mothers. 

It was only four o’clock, but most of the inmates of the 
inn thought it must be between six and seven, the morning 
had seemed so long — so many hours had passed since dinner 
— when a Welsh car, drawn by two horses, rattled briskly 
up to the door. Every window of the ark was crowded 
with faces at the sound ; the leathern curtains were undrawn 
to their curious eyes, and out sprang a gentleman, who 
carefully assisted a well-cloaked-up lady into the little inn, 

61 


Ruth 

despite the landlady’s assurances of not having a room to 
spare. 

The gentleman (it was Mr. Bellingham) paid no attention 
to the speeches of the hostess, but quietly superintended the 
unpacking of the carriage, and paid the postillion ;• then, 
turning round, with his face to the light, he spoke to the 
landlady, whose voice had been rising during the last five 
minutes — 

“Nay, Jenny, you’re strangely altered, if you can turn 
out an old friend on such an evening as this. If I remember 
right, Pen tre Yoelas is twenty miles across the bleakest 
mountain -road I ever saw.” 

“ Indeed, sir, and I did not know you ; Mr. Bellingham, 
I believe. Indeed, sir, Pen tr6 Yoelas is not above eighteen 
miles — we only charge for eighteen; it may not be much 
above seventeen, — and we’re quite full, indeed, more’s the 
pity.” 

“Well, but, Jenny, to oblige me, an old friend, you can 
find lodgings out for some of your people — that house across, 
for instance.” 

“ Indeed, sir, and it’s at liberty ; perhaps you would not 
mind lodging there yourself. I could get you the best rooms, 
and send over a trifle or so of furniture, if they weren’t as 
you’d wish them to be.” 

“ No, Jenny, here I stay. You’ll not induce me to 
venture over into those rooms, whose dirt I know of old. 
Can’t you persuade some one who is not an old friend to 
move across ? Say, if you like, that I had written before- 
hand to bespeak the rooms. Oh, I know you can manage 
it — I know your good-natured ways.” 

“ Indeed, sir ! Well, I’ll see, if you and the lady will 
just step into the back-parlour, sir — there’s no one there just 
now ; the lady is keeping her bed to-day for a cold, and the 
gentleman is having a rubber at whist in number three. I’ll 
see what I can do.” 

“ Thank you — thank you ! Is there a fire ? if not, one 
must be lighted. Come, Ruthie, come ! ’* 

63 


In North Wales 

He led the way into a large bow- windowed room, which 
looked gloomy enough that afternoon, but which I have seen 
bright and buoyant with youth and hope within, and sunny 
lights creeping down the purple mountain slope, and stealing 
over the green, soft meadows, till they reached the little 
garden, full of roses and lavender- bushes, lying close under 
the window. I have seen — but I shall see no more. 

“ I did not know you had been here before,” said Ruth, 
as Mr. Bellingham helped her off with her cloak. 

“ Oh, yes ; three years ago I was here on a reading 
party. We were here above two months, attracted by 
Jenny’s kind heart and oddities, but driven away finally by 
the insufferable dirt. However, for a week or two it won’t 
much signify.” 

“ But can she take us in ? I thought I heard her saying 
her house was full.” 

“ Oh, yes, I dare say it is ; but I shall pay her well. She 
can easily make excuses to some poor devil, and send him 
over to the other side ; and for a day or two, so that we have 
shelter, it does not much signify.” 

“ Could not we go to the house on the other side ? ” 

“ And have our meals carried across to us in a half- 
warm state, to say nothing of having no one to scold for 
bad cooking ! You don’t know these out-of-the-way Welsh 
inns yet, Ruthie.” 

“ No, I only thought it seemed rather unfair,” said Ruth 
gently ; but she did not end her sentence, for Mr. Bellingham 
formed his bps into a whistle, and walked to the window to 
survey the rain. 

The remembrance of his former good payment prompted 
many little lies of which Mrs. Morgan was guilty that after- 
noon, before she succeeded in turning out a gentleman and 
lady, who were only planning to remain till the ensuing 
Saturday at the outside; so, if they did fulfil their threat, 
and leave on the next day, she would be no very great 
loser. 

These household arrangements complete, she solaced 

63 


Ruth 

herself with tea in her own little parlour, and shrewdly 
reviewed the circumstances of Mr. Bellingham’s arrival. 

“ Indeed ! and she’s not his wife,” thought Jenny, “ that’s 
clear as day. His wife would have brought her maid, and 
given herself twice as many airs about the sitting-rooms; 
while this poor miss never spoke, but kept as still as a 
mouse. Indeed, and young men will be young men; and 
as long as their fathers and mothers shut their eyes, it’s 
none of my business to go about asking questions.” 

In this manner they ‘Settled down to a week’s enjoyment 
of that Alpine country. It was most true enjoyment to 
Buth. It was opening a new sense ; vast ideas of beauty 
and grandeur filled her mind at the sight of the mountains, 
now first beheld in full majesty. She was almost overpowered 
by the vague and solemn delight ; but by-and-by her love for 
them equalled her awe, and in the night-time she would 
softly rise, and steal to the window to see the white moon- 
light, which gave a new aspect to the everlasting hills that 
girdle the mountain village. 

Their breakfast-hour was late, in accordance with Mr. 
Bellingham’s tastes and habits ; but Ruth was up betimes, 
and out and away, brushing the dewdrops from the short 
crisp grass ; the lark sung high above her head, and she 
knew not if she moved or stood still, for the grandeur of this 
beautiful earth absorbed all idea of separate and individual 
existence. Even rain was a pleasure to her. She sat in the 
window-seat of their parlour (she would have gone out gladly, 
but that such a proceeding annoyed Mr. Bellingham, who 
usually at such times lounged away the listless hours on a 
sofa, and relieved himself by abusing the weather) ; she saw 
the swift-fleeting showers come athwart the sunlight like a 
rush of silver arrows ; she watched the purple darkness on 
the heathery mountain -side, and then the pale golden gleam 
which succeeded. There was no change or alteration of nature 
that had not its own peculiar beauty in the eyes of Ruth ; 
but if she had complained of the changeable climate, she 
would have pleased Mr. Bellingham more : her admiration 

64 


In North Wales 

and her content made him angry, until her pretty motions 
and loving eyes soothed down his impatience. 

“ Eeally, Ruth,” he exclaimed one day, when they had 
been imprisoned by rain a whole morning, “ one would think 
you had never seen a shower of rain before ; it quite wearies 
me to see you sitting there watching this detestable weather® 
with such a placid countenance ; and for the last two hours 
you have said nothing more amusing or interesting than— 

‘ Oh, how beautiful 1 * or, ‘ There’s another cloud coming 
across Moel Wynn.’ ” 

Ruth left her seat very gently, and took up her work. 
She wished she had the gift of being amusing ; it must be 
dull for a man accustomed to all kinds of active employ- 
ments to be shut up in the house. She was recalled 
from her absolute self-forgetfulness. What could she say 
to interest Mr. Bellingham ? While she thought, he spoke 
again — 

“ I remember when we were reading here three years ago, 
we had a week of just such weather as this ; but Howard and 
Johnson were capital whist-players, and Wilbraham not bad, 
so we got through the days famously. Can you play ecarte , 
Ruth, or picquet ? ” 

“No, I have sometimes played at beggar-my-neigh- 
bour,” answered Ruth humbly, regretting her own 
deficiencies. 

He murmured impatiently, and there was silence for 
another half-hour. Then he sprang up, and rang the bell 
violently. “ Ask Mrs. Morgan for a pack of cards. Ruthie, 
I’ll teach you ecarte ,” said he. 

But Ruth was stupid, not so good as a dummy, he said ; 
and it was no fun betting against himself. So the cards were 
flung across the table— on the floor— anywhere. Ruth 
picked them up. As she rose, she sighed a little with the 
depression of spirits consequent upon her own want of power 
to amuse and occupy him she loved. 

“ You’re pale, love ! ” said he, half repenting of his anger 
at her blunders over the cards. “ Go out before dinner ; you 

65 F 


Ruth 

know yon don’t mind this cursed weather ; and see that you 
come home full of adventures to relate. Come, little block- 
head ! give me a kiss, and begone.” 

She left the room with a feeling of relief ; for if he were 
dull without her, she should not feel responsible, and unhappy 
at her own stupidity. The open air, that kind of soothing 
balm which gentle mother Nature offers to us all in our 
seasons of depression, relieved ter. The rain had ceased, 
though every leaf and blade was loaded with trembling 
glittering drops. Ruth went down to the circular dale, into 
which the brown foaming mountain river fell and made a 
deep pool, and, after resting there for a while, ran on 
between broken rocks down to the valley below. The water- 
fall was magnificent, as she had anticipated ; she longed to 
extend her walk to the other side of the stream, so she sought 
the stepping-stones, the usual crossing-place, which were 
overshadowed by trees, a few yards from the pool. The 
waters ran high and rapidly, as busy as life, between the 
pieces of grey rock ; but Ruth had no fear, and went lightly 
and steadily on. About the middle, however, there was a 
great gap ; either one of the stones was so covered with 
water as to be invisible, or it had been washed lower down ; 
at any rate, the spring from stone to stone was long, and 
Ruth hesitated for a moment before taking it. The sound of 
rushing waters was in her ears to the exclusion of every 
other noise ; her eyes were on the current running swiftly 
below her feet; and thus she was startled to see a figure 
close before her on one of the stones, and to hear a voice 
offering help. 

She looked up and saw a man, who was apparently long 
past middle life, and of the stature of a dwarf ; a second 
glance accounted for the low height of the speaker, for then 
she saw he was deformed. As the consciousness of this 
infirmity came into her mind, it must have told itself in 
her softened eyes ; for a faint flush of colour came into the 
pale face of the deformed gentleman, as he repeated his 
words — 


66 


In North Wales 

“ The water is very rapid ; will you take my hand ? 
Perhaps I can help you.” 

Ruth accepted the offer, and with this assistance she was 
across in a moment. He made way for her to precede him 
in the narrow wood path, and then silently followed her up 
the glen. 

When they had passed out of the wood into the pasture- 
land beyond, Ruth once more turned to mark him. She was 
struck afresh with the mild beauty of the face, though there 
was something in the countenance which told of the body’s 
deformity, something more and beyond the pallor of habitual 
ill-health, something of a quick spiritual light in the deep-set 
eyes, a sensibility about the mouth ; but altogether, though 
a peculiar, it was a most attractive face. 

“ Will you allow me to accompany you if you are going 
the round by Cwm Dhu, as I imagine you are ? The hand- 
rail is blown away from the little wooden bridge by the 
storm last night, and the rush of waters below may make you 
dizzy ; and it is really dangerous to fall there, the stream is 
so deep.” 

They walked on without much speech. She wondered 
who her companion might be. She should have known him, 
if she had seen him among the strangers at the inn ; and yet 
he spoke English too well to be a Welshman ; he knew the 
country and the paths so perfectly, he must be a resident ; 
and so she tossed him from England to Wales, and back 
again, in her imagination. 

“ I only came here yesterday,” said he, as a widening in 
the path permitted them to walk abreast. “ Last night I went 
to the higher waterfalls; they are most splendid.” 

“ Did you go out in all that rain ? ” asked Ruth timidly. 

“ Oh, yes. Rain never hinders me from walking. Indeed, 
it gives a new beauty to such a country as this. Besides, 
my time for my excursion is so short, I cannot afford to waste 
a day.” 

“ Then you do not live here ? ” asked Ruth. 

“ No ! my home is in a very different place, I live in a 
67 


Ruth 

busy town, where at times it is difficult to feel the truth 
that 

* There are in this loud stunning tide 
Of human care and crime, 

With whom the melodies abide 
Of th’ everlasting chime ; 

Who carry music in their heart 
Through dusky lane and crowded mart, 

Plying their task with butler feet, 

Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.’ 

I have an annual holiday, which I generally spend in Wales ; 
and often in this immediate neighbourhood.” 

“ I do not wonder at your choice,” replied Ruth. “ It is 
a beautiful country.” 

“ It is, indeed ; and I have been inoculated by an old inn- 
keeper at Conway with a love for its people, and history, and 
traditions. I have picked up enough of the language to 
understand many of their legends ; and some are very fine 
and awe-inspiring, others very poetic and fanciful.” 

Ruth was too shy to keep up the conversation by any 
remark of her own, although his gentle, pensive manner 
was very winning. 

“ For instance,” said he, touching a long bud-laden stem 
of foxglove in the hedge-side, at the bottom of which one or 
two crimson-speckled flowers were bursting from their green 
sheaths, “ I dare say, you don’t know what makes this fox- 
glove bend and sway so gracefully. You think it is blown by 
the wind, don’t you ? ” He looked at her with a grave smile, 
which did not enliven his thoughtful eyes, but gave an 
inexpressible sweetness to his face. 

“ I always thought it was the wind. What is it ? ” asked 
Ruth innocently. 

“ Oh, the Welsh tell you that this flower is sacred to the 
fairies, and that it has the power of recognising them, and 
all spiritual beings who pass by, and that it bows in defer- 
ence to them as they waft along. Its Welsh name is Maneg 
Ellyllyn — the good people’s glove ; and hence, I imagine, 
our folk’s-glove or fox-glove.” 


68 


Troubles gather about Ruth 

“ It’s a very pretty fancy,” said Ruth, much interested, 
and wishing that he would go on, without expecting her to 
reply. 

But they were already at the wooden bridge ; he led her 
across, and then, bowing his adieu, he had taken a different 
path even before Ruth had thanked him for his attention. 

It was an adventure to tell Mr. Bellingham, however ; 
and it aroused and amused him till dinner-time came, after 
which he sauntered forth with a cigar. 

“Ruth,” said he, when he returned, “I’ve seen your 
little hunchback. He looks like Riquet-with-the-Tuft. He’s 
not a gentleman, though. If it had not been for his deform- 
ity, I should not have made him out from your description ; 
you called him a gentleman.” 

“ And don’t you ? ” asked Ruth, surprised. 

“ Oh, no ! he’s regularly shabby and seedy in his appear- 
ance; lodging, too, the ostler told me, over that horrible 
candle-and-cheese shop, the smell of which is insufferable 
twenty yards off — no gentleman could endure it; he must 
be a traveller or artist, or something of that kind.” 

“ Did you see his face ? ” asked Ruth. 

“ No ; but a man’s back — his tout ensemble, has character 
enough in it to decide his rank.” 

“ His face was very singular ; quite beautiful ! ” said she 
softly ; but the subject did not interest Mr. Bellingham, and 
he let it drop 


CHAPTER VI 

TROUBLES GATHER ABOUT RUTH 

The next day the weather was brave and glorious ; a perfect 
“ bridal of the earth and sky ; ” and every one turned out of 
the inn to enjoy the fresh beauty of nature. Ruth was quite 
unconscious of being the object of remark ; and, in her light, 

69 


Ruth 

rapid passings to and fro, had never looked at the doors and 
windows, where many watchers stood observing her, and 
commenting upon her situation or her appearance. 

“ She’s a very lovely creature,” said one gentleman, rising 
from the breakfast-table to catch a glimpse of her as she 
entered from her morning’s ramble. “Not above sixteen I 
should think. Very modest ajid innocent-looking in her 
white gown ! ” 

His wife, busy administering to the wants of a fine little 
boy, could only say (without seeing the young girl’s modest 
ways, and gentle, downcast countenance) — 

“ Well ! I do think it’s a shame such people should be 
allowed to come here. To think of such wickedness under 
the same roof ! Do come away, my dear, and don’t flatter 
her by such notice.” 

The husband returned to the breakfast-table; he smelt 
the broiled ham and eggs, and he heard his wife’s commands. 
Whether smelling or hearing had most to do in causing his 
obedience, I cannot tell ; perhaps you can. 

“ Now, Harry, go and see if nurse and baby are ready 
to go out with you. You must lose no time this beautiful 
morning.” 

Ruth found Mr. Bellingham was not yet come down ; so 
she sallied out for an additional half-hour’s ramble. Flitting 
about through the village, trying to catch all the beautiful 
sunny peeps at the scenery between the cold stone houses, 
which threw the radiant distance into aerial perspective far 
away, she passed by the little shop ; and, just issuing from 
it, came the nurse and baby, and little boy. The baby sat in 
placid dignity in her nurse’s arms, with a face of queenly 
calm. Her fresh, soft, peachy complexion was really tempt- 
ing ; and Ruth, who was p always fond of children, went up to 
coo and to smile at the little thing, and after some “ peep- 
boing,” she was about to snatch a kiss, when Harry, whose 
face had been reddening ever since the play began, lifted up his 
sturdy little right arm and hit Ruth a great blow on the face. 

“ Oh, for shame, sir ! ” said the nurse, snatching back his 
70 


Troubles gather about Ruth 

hand ; “ how dare you do that to the lady who is so kind as 
to speak to Sissy ! ” 

“ She’s not a lady ! ” said he indignantly. “ She’s a bad, 
naughty girl— mamma said so, she did; and she shan’t kiss 
our baby.” 

The nurse reddened in her turn. She knew what he 
must have heard ; but it was awkward to bring it out, 
standing face to face with the elegant young lady. 

“ Children pick up such notions, ma’am,” said she at last, 
apologetically, to Ruth, who stood, white and still, with a new 
idea running through her mind. 

“ It’s no notion ; it’s true, nurse ; and I heard you say it 
yourself. Go away, naughty woman ! ” said the boy, in 
infantile vehemence of passion to Ruth. 

To the nurse’s infinite relief, Ruth turned away, humbly 
and meekly, with bent head, and slow, uncertain steps. But 
as she turned, she saw the mild sad face of the deformed 
gentleman, who was sitting at the open window above the 
shop ; he looked sadder and graver than ever ; and his eyes 
met her glance with an expression of deep sorrow. And so, 
condemned alike by youth and age, she stole with timid step 
into the house. Mr. Bellingham was awaiting her in the 
sitting-room. The glorious day restored all his buoyancy of 
spirits. He talked gaily away, without pausing for a reply ; 
while Ruth made tea, and tried to calm her heart, which was 
yet beating with the agitation of the new ideas she had 
received from the occurrence of the morning. Luckily for 
her, the only answers required for some time were mono- 
syllables ; but those few words were uttered in so depressed 
and mournful a tone, that at last they struck Mr. Bellingham 
with surprise and displeasure, as the condition of mind they 
unconsciously implied did not harmonise with his own. 

“ Ruth, what is the matter this morning ? You really are 
very provoking. Yesterday, when everything was gloomy, 
and you might have been aware that I was out of spirits, I 
heard nothing but expressions of delight ; to-day, when 
every creature under heaven is rejoicing, you look most 

7i 


Ruth 

deplorable and woe-begone. Yon really should learn to have 
a little sympathy.” 

The tears fell quickly down Ruth’s cheeks, but she did 
not speak. She could not put into words the sense she was 
just beginning to entertain of the estimation in which she 
was henceforward to be held. She thought he would be as 
much grieved as she was at what had taken place that 
morning ; she fancied she should sink in his opinion if she 
told him how others regarded her; besides, it seemed 
ungenerous to dilate upon the suffering of which he was the 
cause. 

“ I will not,” thought she, “ embitter his life ; I will try 
and be cheerful. I must not think of myself so much. If 
I can but make him happy, what need I care for chance 
speeches ? ” 

Accordingly, she made every effort possible to be as light- 
hearted as he was ; but, somehow, the moment she relaxed, 
thoughts would intrude, and wonders would force themselves 
upon her mind: so that altogether she was not the gay 
and bewitching companion Mr. Bellingham had previously 
found her. 

They sauntered out for a walk. The path they chose led 
to a wood on the side of a hill, and they entered, glad of the 
shade of the trees. At first it appeared like any common 
grove, but they soon came to a deep descent, on the summit 
of which they stood, looking down on the tree-tops, which 
were softly waving far beneath their feet. There was a path 
leading sharp down, and they followed it ; the ledge of rock 
made it almost like going down steps, and their walk grew 
into a bounding, and their bounding into a run, before they 
reached the lowest plane. A green gloom reigned there ; it 
was the still hour of noon ; the little birds were quiet in some 
leafy shade. They went on a few yards, and then they came 
to a circular pool overshadowed by the trees, whose highest 
boughs had been beneath their feet a few minutes before. 
The pond was hardly below the surface of the ground, and 
there was nothing like a bank on any side. A heron was 

72 


Troubles gather about Ruth 

standing there motionless, but when he saw them he flapped 
his wings and slowly rose, and soared above the green 
heights of the wood up into the very sky itself, for at that 
depth the trees appeared to touch the round white clouds 
which brooded over the earth. The speedwell grew in the 
shallowest water of the pool, and all around its margin, but 
the flowers were hardly seen at first, so deep was the green 
shadow cast by the trees. In the very middle of the pond 
the sky was mirrored clear and dark, a blue which looked as 
if a black void lay behind. 

“ Oh, there are water-lilies ! ” said Ruth, her eye catching 
on the farther side. “ I must go and get some.” 

“ No ; I will get them for you. The ground is spongy all 
round there. Sit still, Ruth ; this heap of grass will make a 
capital seat.” 

He went round, and she waited quietly for his return. 
When he came back he took off her bonnet, without speak- 
ing, and began to place his flowers in her hair. She was 
quite still while he arranged her coronet, looking up in his 
face with loving eyes, with a peaceful composure. She 
knew that he was pleased from his manner, which had the 
joyousness of a child playing with a new toy, and she did 
not think twice of his occupation. It was pleasant to forget 
everything except his pleasure. When he had decked her 
out, he said — 

“ There, Ruth ! now you’ll do. Come and look at 
yourself in the pond. Here, where there are no weeds. 
Come.” 

She obeyed, and could not help seeing her own loveliness ; 
it gave her a sense of satisfaction for an instant, as the sight 
of any other beautiful object would have done, but she never 
thought of associating it with herself. She knew that she 
was beautiful ; but that seemed abstract, and removed from 
herself. Her existence was in feeling and thinking, and 
loving. 

Down in that green hollow they were quite in harmony. 
Her beauty was all that Mr. Bellingham cared for, and it was 

73 


Ruth 

supreme. It was all he recognised of her, and he was proud 
of it. She stood in her white dress against the trees which 
grew around ; her face was flushed into a brilliancy of colour 
which resembled that of a rose in June ; the great, heavy, 
white flowers drooped on either side of her beautiful head, and 
if her brown hair was a little disordered, the very disorder 
only seemed to add a grace. She pleased him more by 
looking so lovely than by all her tender endeavours to fall in 
with his varying humour. « 

But when they left the wood, and Ruth had taken out 
her flowers, and resumed her bonnet, as they came near the 
inn, the simple thought of giving him pleasure was not 
enough to secure Ruth’s peace. She became pensive and 
sad, and could not rally into gaiety. 

“Really, Ruth,” said he, that evening, “you must not 
encourage yourself in this habit of falling into melancholy 
reveries without any cause. You have been sighing twenty 
times during the last half-hour. Do be a little cheerful. 
Remember, I have no companion but you in this out-of-the- 
way place.” 

“ I am very sorry,” said Ruth, her eyes filling with tears ; 
and then she remembered that it was very dull for him to be 
alone with her, heavy-hearted as she had been all day. She 
said in a sweet, penitent tone — 

“ Would you be so kind as to teach me one of those 
games at cards you were speaking about yesterday ? I would 
do my best to learn.” 

Her soft, murmuring voice won its way. They rang for 
the cards, and he soon forgot that there was such a thing as 
depression or gloom in the world, in the pleasure of teaching 
such a beautiful ignoramus the mysteries of card-playing. 

“ There ! ” said he, at last, “ that’s enough for one lesson. 
Do you know, little goose, your blunders have made me 
laugh myself into one of the worst headaches I have had for 
years.” 

He threw himself on the sofa, and in an instant she was 
by his side. 


74 


Troubles gather about Ruth 

“ Let me put my cool hands on your forehead,” she 
begged ; “ that used to do mamma good.” 

He lay still, his face away from the light, and not speaking. 
Presently he fell asleep. Ruth put out the candles, and sat 
patiently by him for a long time, fancying he would awaken 
refreshed. The room grew cold in the night air ; but Ruth 
dared not rouse him from what appeared to be sound, restor- 
ing slumber. She covered him with her shawl, which she had 
thrown over a chair on coming in from their twilight ramble. 
She had ample time to think ; but she tried to banish thought. 
At last, his breathing became quick and oppressed, and, after 
listening to it for some minutes with increasing affright, Ruth 
ventured to awaken him. He seemed stupefied and shivery. 
Ruth became more and more terrified ; all the household were 
asleep except one servant-girl, who was wearied out of what 
little English she had knowledge of in more waking hours, 
and could only answer, “ Iss, indeed, ma’am,” to any question 
put to her by Ruth. 

She sat by the bedside all night long. He moaned and 
tossed, but never spoke sensibly. It was a new form of 
illness to the miserable Ruth. Her yesterday’s suffering 
went into the black distance of long-past years. The present 
was all in all. When she heard people stirring, she 
went in search of Mrs. Morgan, whose shrewd, sharp 
manners, unsoftened by inward respect for the poor girl, 
had awed Ruth even when Mr. Bellingham was by to 
protect her. 

“ Mrs. Morgan,” she said, sitting down in the little 
parlour appropriated to the landlady, for she felt her strength 
suddenly desert her — “ Mrs. Morgan, I’m afraid Mr. Belling- 
ham is very ill ; ” — here she burst into tears, but instantly 
checking herself, “ Oh, what must I do ? ” continued she ; “ I 
don’t think he has known anything all through the night, 
and he looks so strange and wild this morning.” 

She gazed up into Mrs. Morgan’s face, as if reading an 
oracle. 

“ Indeed, miss, ma’am, and it’s a very awkward thing. 

75 


Ruth 

But don’t cry, that can do no good ; ’deed it can t. 1 11 go 
and see the poor young man myself, and then I can judge if 
a doctor is wanting.” 

Ruth followed Mrs. Morgan upstairs. When they entered 
the sick-room Mr. Bellingham was sitting up in bed, 
looking wildly about him, and as he saw them, he ex- 
claimed — 

“ Ruth ! Ruth ! come here ; I won’t be left alone ! ” and 
then he fell down exhausted on the pillow. Mrs. Morgan, 
went up and spoke to him, but he did not answer or take 
any notice. 

“ I’ll send for Mr. Jones, my dear, ’deed and I will ; we’ll 
have him here in a couple of hours, please God.” 

“ Oh, can’t he come sooner ? ” asked Ruth, wild with 
terror. 

“ ’Deed no ! he lives at Llanglas when he’s at home, and 
that’s seven mile away, and he may be gone a round eight or 
nine mile on the other side Llanglas ; but I’ll send a boy on • 
the pony directly.” 

Saying this, Mrs. Morgan left Ruth alone. There was 
nothing to be done, for Mr. Bellingham had again fallen into 
heavy sleep. Sounds of daily life began, bells rang, break- 
fast-services clattered up and down the passages, and Ruth 
sat on shivering by the bedside in that darkened room. 
Mrs. Morgan sent her breakfast upstairs by a chambermaid ; 
but Ruth motioned it away in her sick agony, and the girl 
had no right to urge her to partake of it. That alone broke 
the monotony of the long morning. She heard the sound of 
merry parties setting out on excursions, on horseback or 
in carriages; and once, stiff and wearied, she stole to the 
window, and looked out on one side of the blind ; but the day 
looked bright and discordant to her aching, anxious heart. 
The gloom of the darkened room was better and more 
befitting. 

It was some hours after he was summoned before the 
doctor made his appearance. He questioned his patient, and, 
receiving no coherent answer, he asked Ruth concerning the 

76 


Troubles gather about Ruth 

symptoms ; but when she questioned him in turn he only 
shook his head and looked grave. He made a sign to Mrs. 
Morgan to follow him out of the room, and they went down 
to her parlour, leaving Ruth in a depth of despair, lower than 
she could have thought it possible there remained for her to 
experience, an hour before. 

“ I am afraid this is a bad case,” said Mr. Jones to Mrs. 
Morgan in Welsh. “ A brain-fever has evidently set in.” 

“ Poor young gentleman ! poor young man ! He looked 
the very picture of health ! ” 

“ That very appearance of robustness will, in all pro- 
bability, make his disorder more violent. However, we must 
hope for the best, Mrs. Morgan. Who is to attend upon him ? 
He will require careful nursing. Is that young lady his 
sister ? She looks too young to be his wife ? ” 

“No, indeed ! Gentlemen like you must know, Mr. 
Jones, that we can’t always look too closely into the ways of 
young men who come to our houses. Not but what I am 
sorry for her, for she’s an innocent, inoffensive young creature. 
I always think it right, for my own morals, to put a little 
scorn into my manners when such as her come to stay here ; 
but indeed, she’s so gentle, I’ve found it hard work to show 
the proper contempt.” 

She would have gone on to her inattentive listener if she 
had not heard a low tap at the door, which recalled her from 
her morality, and Mr. Jones from his consideration of the 
necessary prescriptions. 

“ Come in ! ” said Mrs. Morgan sharply. And Ruth came 
in. She was white and trembling; but she stood in that 
dignity which strong feeling, kept down by self-command, 
always imparts. 

“ I wish you, sir, to be so kind as to tell me, clearly and 
distinctly, what I must do for Mr. Bellingham. Every 
direction you give me shall be most carefully attended 
to. You spoke about leeches— I can put them on, and see 
about them. Tell me everything, sir, that you wish to have 
done ! ” 


77 


Ruth 

Her manner was calm and serious, and her countenance 
and deportment showed that the occasion was calling out 
strength sufficient to meet it. Mr. Jones spoke with a 
deference which he had not thought of using upstairs, even 
while he supposed her to be the sister of the invalid. Euth 
listened gravely ; she repeated some of the injunctions, in 
order that she might be sure that she fully comprehended 
them, and then, bowing, left the room. 

“ She is no common person,” said Mr. Jones. “ Still 
she is too young to have the responsibility of such a serious 
case. Have you any idea where his friends live. Mrs. 
Morgan ? ” 

“ Indeed and I have. His mother, as haughty a lady 
as you would wish to see, came travelling through Wales last 
year; she stopped here, and, I warrant you, nothing was 
good enough for her ; she was real quality. She left some 
clothes and books behind her (for the maid was almost as 
fine as the mistress, and little thought of seeing after her 
lady’s clothes, having a taste for going to see scenery along 
with the man-servant), and we had several letters from her. 
I have them locked in the drawers in the bar, where I keep 
such things.” 

“ Well, I should recommend your writing to the lady, 
and telling her her son’s state.” 

“ It would be a favour, Mr. Jones, if you would just 
write it yourself. English writing comes so strange to my 
pen.” 

The letter was written, and, in order to save time, Mr. 
Jones took it to the Llanglas post-office. 


7S 


The Crisis — Watching and Waiting 


CHAPTEB VII 

THE CRISIS WATCHING AND WAITING 

Ruth put away every thought of the past or future ; every- 
thing that could unfit her for the duties of the present. 
Exceeding love supplied the place of experience. She never 
left the room after the first day ; she forced herself to eat, 
because his service needed her strength. She did not indulge 
in any tears, because the weeping she longed for would make 
her less able to attend upon him. She watched, and waited, 
and prayed ; prayed with an utter forgetfulness of self, only 
with a consciousness that God was all-powerful, and that 
he, whom she loved so much, needed the aid of the Mighty 
One. 

Day and night, the summer night, seemed merged into 
one. She lost count of time in the hushed and darkened 
room. One morning Mrs. Morgan beckoned her out ; and 
she stole on tiptoe into the dazzling gallery, on one side of 
which the bedrooms opened. 

“ She’s come,” whispered Mrs. Morgan, looking very 
much excited, and forgetting that Ruth had never heard that 
Mrs. Bellingham had been summoned. 

“ Who is come ? ” asked Ruth. The idea of Mrs. Mason 
flashed through her mind — but with a more terrible, because 
a more vague, dread she heard that it was his mother ; the 
mother of whom he had always spoken as a person whose 
opinion was to be regarded more than that of any other 
individual. 

“ What must I do ? Will she be angry with me?” said 
she, relapsing into her child-like dependence on others ; and 
feeling that even Mrs. Morgan was some one to stand 
between her and Mrs. Bellingham. 

Mrs. Morgan herself was a little perplexed. Her morality 
was rather shocked at the idea of a proper real lady like Mrs. 

70 


Ruth 

Bellingham discovering that she had winked at the connec- 
tion between her son and Buth. She was quite inclined to 
encourage Ruth in her inclination to shrink out of Mrs. 
Bellingham’s observation, an inclination which arose from 
no definite consciousness of having done wrong, but princi- 
pally from the representations she had always heard of the 
lady’s awfulness. Mrs. Bellingham swept into her son’s room 
as if she were unconscious what poor young creature had 
lately haunted it ; while Ruth hurried into some unoccupied 
bedroom, and, alone there, she felt her self-restraint suddenly 
give way, and burst into the saddest, most utterly wretched 
weeping she had ever known. She was worn out with 
watching, and exhausted by passionate crying, and she lay 
down on the bed and fell asleep. The day passed on ; she 
slumbered unnoticed and unregarded ; she awoke late in the 
evening with a sense of having done wrong in sleeping so 
long ; the strain upon her responsibility had not yet left her. 
Twilight was closing fast around ; she waited until it had 
become night, and then she stole down to Mrs. Morgan’s 
parlour. 

“ If you please, may I come in ? ’* asked she. 

J enny Morgan was doing up the hieroglyphics which she 
called her accounts ; she answered sharp enough, but it was 
a permission to enter, and Ruth was thankful for it. 

“Will you tell me how he is ? Bo you think I may go 
back to him ? * 

“No, indeed, that you may not. Nest, who has made 
his room tidy these many days, is not fit to go in now. Mrs. 
Bellingham has brought her own maid, and the family nurse, 
and Mr. Bellingham’s man ; such a tribe of servants, and no 
end to packages; water-beds coming by the carrier, and a 
doctor from London coming down to-morrow, as if feather- 
beds and Mr. Jones was not good enough. Why, she won’t 
let a soul of us into the room ; there’s no chance for you ! ” 

Ruth sighed. “How is he?” she inquired, after a 
pause. 

“ How can I tell, indeed, when I am not allowed to go 
80 


The Crisis — Watching and Waiting 

near him? Mr. Jones said to-night was a turning-point; 
but I doubt it, for it is four days since he was taken ill, and 
who ever heard of a sick person taking a turn on an even 
number of days ? It’s alway on the third, or the fifth, or 
seventh, or so on. He’ll not turn till to-morrow night, take 
my word for it, and their fine London doctor will get all the 
credit, and honest Mr. Jones will be thrown aside. I don’t 
think he will get better myself, though — Gelert does not 
howl for nothing. My patience ! what’s the matter with 
the girl ?— Lord, child, you’re never going to faint, and be ill 
on my hands ? ” Her sharp voice recalled Ruth from the 
sick unconsciousness that had been creeping over her as she 
listened to the latter part of this speech. She sat down and 
could not speak — the room whirled round and round — her 
white feebleness touched Mrs. Morgan’s heart. 

“ You’ve had no tea, I guess. Indeed, and the girls are 
very careless.” She rang the bell with energy, and seconded 
her pull by going to the door and shouting out sharp 
directions, in Welsh, to Nest and Gwen, and three or four 
other rough, kind, slatternly servants. 

They brought her tea, which was comfortable, according 
to the idea of comfort prevalent in that rude hospitable 
place ; there was plenty to eat ; too much indeed, for it 
revolted the appetite it was intended to provoke. But the 
heartiness with which the kind rosy waiter pressed her to 
eat, and the scolding Mrs. Morgan gave her when she found 
the buttered toast untouched (toast on which she had herself 
desired that the butter might not be spared), did Ruth more 
good than the tea. She began to hope, and to long for the 
morning when hope might have become certainty. It was 
all in vain that she was told that the room she had been in 
all day was at her service ; she did not say a word, but she 
was not going to bed that night of all nights in the year, 
when life or death hung trembling in the balance. She went 
into the bedroom till the bustling house was still, and heard 
busy feet passing to and fro into the room she might not 
enter ; and voices, imperious, though hushed down to a 

8 1 G 


Ruth 

whisper, ask for innumerable things. Then there was 
silence : and when she thought that all were dead asleep, 
except the watchers, she stole out into the gallery. On the 
other side were two windows, cut into the thick stone wall, 
and flower-pots were placed on the shelves thus formed, 
where great untrimmed, straggling geraniums grew, and 
strove to reach the light. The window near Mr. Bellingham's 
door was open; the soft, warm-scented night-air came 
sighing in in faint gusts, and then was still. It was 
summer; there was no black darkness in the twenty-four 
hours; only the light grew dusky, and colour disappeared 
from objects, of which the shape and form remained distinct. 
A soft grey oblong of barred light fell on the flat wall 
opposite to the windows, and deeper grey shadows marked 
out the tracery of the plants, more graceful thus than in 
reality. Ruth crouched where no light fell. She sat on the 
ground close by the door ; her whole existence was absorbed 
in listening: all was still; it was only her heart beating 
with the strong, heavy, regular sound of a hammer. She 
wished 'she could stop its rushing, incessant clang. She 
heard a rustle of a silken gown, and knew it ought not to 
have been worn in a sick-room ; for her senses seemed to 
have passed into the keeping of the invalid, and to feel only 
as he felt. The noise was probably occasioned by some 
change of posture in the watcher inside, for it was once more 
dead- still. The soft wind outside sank with a low, long, 
distant moan among the windings of the hills, and lost itself 
there, and came no more again. But Ruth’s heart beat 
loud. She rose with as little noise as if she were a vision, 
and crept to the open window to try and lose the nervous 
listening for the ever-recurring sound. Out beyond, under 
the calm sky, veiled with a mist rather than with a cloud, 
rose the high, dark outlines of the mountains, shutting in 
that village as if it lay in a nest. They stood, like giants, 
solemnly watching for the end of Earth and Time. Here 
and there a black round shadow reminded Ruth of some 
“ Cwm,” or hollow, where she and her lover had rambled in 

82 


The Crisis — Watching and Waiting 

sun and in gladness. She then thought the land enchanted 
into everlasting brightness and happiness ; she fancied, then, 
that into a region so lovely no bale or woe could enter, but 
would be charmed away and disappear before the sight 
of the glorious guardian mountains. Now she knew the 
truth, that earth has no barrier which avails against agony. 
It comes lightning-like down from heaven, into the mountain 
house and the town garret; into the palace and into the 
cottage. The garden lay close under the house ; a bright 
spot enough by day ; for in that soil, whatever was planted 
grew and blossomed in spite of neglect. The white roses 
glimmered out in the dusk all the night through ; the red 
were lost in shadow. Between the low boundary of the 
garden and the hills swept one or two green meadows ; 
Ruth looked into the grey darkness till she traced each 
separate wave of outline. Then she heard a little restless 
bird chirp out its wakefulness from a nest in the ivy round 
the walls of the house. But the mother-bird spread her soft 
feathers, and hushed it into silence. Presently, however, 
many little birds began to scent the coming dawn, and 
rustled among the leaves, and chirruped loud and clear. 
Just above the horizon, too, the mist became a silvery grey 
cloud hanging on the edge of the world ; presently it turned 
shimmering white ; and then, in an instant, it flushed into 
rose, and the mountain-tops sprang into heaven, and bathed 
in the presence of the shadow of God. With a bound, the 
sun of a molten fiery red came above the horizon, and im- 
mediately thousands of little birds sang out for joy, and a 
soft chorus of mysterious, glad murmurs came forth from 
the earth ; the low whispering wind left its hiding-place 
among the clefts and hollows of the hills, and wandered 
among the rustling herbs and trees, waking the flower-buds 
to the life of another day. Ruth gave a sigh of relief that 
the night was over and gone ; for she knew that soon sus- 
pense would be ended, and the verdict known, whether for 
life or for death. She grew faint and sick with anxiety ; it 
almost seemed as if she must go into the room and learn the 

S3, 


Ruth 

truth. Then she heard movements, but they were not sharp 
nor rapid, as if prompted by any emergency ; then, again, it 
was still. She sat curled up upon the floor, with her head 
thrown back against the wall, and her hands clasped round 
her knees. She had yet to wait. Meanwhile, the invalid 
was slowly rousing himself from a long, deep, sound, health- 
giving sleep. His mother had sat by him the night through, 
and was now daring to change her position for the first time ; 
she was even venturing to give directions in a low voice to 
the old nurse, who had dozed away in an arm-chair, ready 
to obey any summons of her mistress. Mrs. Bellingham 
went on tiptoe towards the door, and chiding herself because 
her stiff, weary limbs made some slight noise. She had an 
irrepressible longing for a few minutes’ change of scene 
after her night of watching. She felt that the crisis was 
over ; and the relief to her mind made her conscious of every 
bodily feeling and irritation, which had passed unheeded as 
long as she had been in suspense. 

She slowly opened the door. Ruth sprang upright at the 
first sound of the creaking handle. Her very lips were stiff 
and unpliable with the force of the blood which rushed to her 
head. It seemed as if she could not form words. She stood 
right before Mrs. Bellingham. “ How is he, madam ? ” 

Mrs. Bellingham was for a moment surprised at the white 
apparition which seemed to rise out of the ground. But her 
quick, proud mind understood it all in an instant. This was 
the girl, then, whose profligacy had led her son astray ; had 
raised up barriers in the way of her favourite scheme of his 
marriage with Miss Duncombe ; nay, this was the real cause 
of his illness, his mortal danger at this present time, and of 
her bitter, keen anxiety. If, under any circumstances, Mrs. 
Bellingham could have been guilty of the ill-breeding of not 
answering a question, it was now; and for a moment she 
was tempted to pass on in silence. Ruth could not wait ; 
she spoke again — 

“ Bor the love of God, madam, speak ! How is he ? 
Will he live?” 


84 


The Crisis — Watching and Waiting 

If she did not answer her, she thought the creature was 
desperate enough to force her way into his room. So she 
spoke — 

“ He has slept well : he is better.” 

“ Oh ! my God, I thank thee,” murmured Ruth, sinking 
back against the wall. 

It was too much to hear this wretched girl thanking God 
for her son’s life ; as if, in fact, she had any lot or part in 
him. And to dare to speak to the Almighty on her son’s 
behalf ! Mrs. Bellingham looked at her with cold, con- 
temptuous eyes, whose glances were like ice-bolts, and made 
Ruth shiver up away from them. 

“ Young woman, if you have any propriety or decency 
left, I trust that you will not dare to force yourself into his 
room.” 

She stood for a moment as if awaiting an answer, and 
half expecting it to be a defiance. But she did not understand 
Ruth. She did not imagine the faithful trustfulness of her 
heart. Ruth believed that, if Mr. Bellingham was alive and 
likely to live, all was well. When he wanted her, he would 
send for her, ask for her, yearn for her, till every one would 
yield before his steadfast will. At present she imagined 
that he was probably too weak to care or know who was 
about him ; and though it would have been an infinite 
delight to her to hover and brood around him, yet it was of 
him she thought and not of herself. She gently drew 
herself on one side to make way for Mrs. Bellingham to 
pass. 

By and by Mrs. Morgan came up. Ruth was still near 
the door, from which it seemed as if she could not tear 
herself away. 

“ Indeed, miss, and you must not hang about the door in 
this way ; it is not pretty manners. Mrs. Bellingham has 
been speaking very sharp and cross about it, and I shall 
lose the character of my inn if people take to talking as she 
does. Did I not give you a room last night to keep in, and 
never be seen or heard of ; and did I not tell you what a 

85 


Ruth 

particular lady Mrs. Bellingham was, but you must come out 
here right in her way? Indeed, it was not pretty, nor 
grateful to me, Jenny Morgan, and that I must say.” 

Ruth turned away like a chidden child. Mrs. Morgan 
followed her to her room, scolding as she went ; and then, 
having cleared her heart after her wont by uttering hasty 
words, her real kindness made her add, in a softened tone — 

“ You stop up here like a good girl. I’ll send you your 
breakfast by-and-by, and let you know from time to time 
how he is ; and you can go out for a walk, you know : but if 
you do, I’ll take it as a favour if you’ll go out by the side- 
door. It will, maybe, save scandal.” 

All that day long, Ruth kept herself close prisoner in the 
room to which Mrs. Morgan accorded her ; all that day, and 
many succeeding days. But at nights, when the house was 
still, and even the little brown mice had gathered up the 
crumbs, and darted again to their holes, Ruth stole out, and 
crept to his door to catch, if she could, the sound of his 
beloved voice. She could tell by its tones how he felt, and 
how he was getting on, as well as any of the watchers in 
the room. She yearned and pined to see him once more ; 
but she had reasoned herself down into something like 
patience. When he was well enough to leave his room, 
when he had not always one of the nurses with him, then 
he would send for her, and she would tell him how very 
patient she had been for his dear sake. But it was long to 
wait, even with this thought of the manner in which the 
waiting would end. Poor Ruth ! her faith was only building 
up vain castles in the air ; they towered up into heaven, it is 
true ; but, after all, they were but visions. 


86 


Doing the Thing handsomely 


CHAPTER VIII 

MRS. BELLINGHAM “ DOES THE THING HANDSOMELY ” 

If Mr. Bellingham did not get rapidly well, it was more 
owing to the morbid querulous fancy attendant on great 
weakness than from any unfavourable medical symptom. 
But he turned away with peevish loathing from the very 
sight of food, prepared in the slovenly manner which had 
almost disgusted him when he was well. It was of no use 
telling him that Simpson, his mother’s maid, had super- 
intended the preparation at every point. He offended her 
by detecting something offensive and to be avoided in her 
daintiest messes, and made Mrs. Morgan mutter many a 
hasty speech, which, however, Mrs. Bellingham thought it 
better not to hear until her son should be strong enough to 
travel. 

“ I think you are better to-day,” said she, as his man 
wheeled his sofa to the bedroom window. “We shall get 
you downstairs to-morrow.” 

“ If you were to get away from this abominable place, I 
could go down to-day ; but I believe I’m to be kept prisoner 
here for ever. I shall never get well here, I’m sure.” 

He sank back on his sofa in impatient despair. The 
surgeon was announced, and eagerly questioned by Mrs. 
Bellingham as to the possibility of her son’s removal ; and 
he, having heard the same anxiety for the same end ex- 
pressed by Mrs. Morgan in the regions below, threw no 
great obstacles in the way. After the doctor had taken his 
departure, Mrs. Bellingham cleared her throat several times. 
Mr. Bellingham knew the prelude of old, and winced with 
nervous annoyance. 

“ Henry, there is something I must speak to you about ; 
an unpleasant subject, certainly, but one which has been 
forced upon me by the very girl herself ; you must be aware 

87 


Ruth 

to what I refer without giving me the pain of explaining 
myself.” 

Mr. Bellingham turned himself sharply round to the 
wall, and prepared himself for a lecture by concealing his 
face from her notice ; but she herself was in too nervous a 
state to be capable of observation. 

“ Of course,” she continued, “ it was my wish to be as 
blind to the whole affair as possible, though you can’t 
imagine how Mrs. Mason has blazoned it abroad ; all Ford- 
ham rings with it : but of course it could not be pleasant, or, 
indeed, I may say correct, for me to be aware that a person 
of such improper character was under the same — I beg your 
pardon, dear Henry, what do you say ? ” 

“ Buth is no improper character, mother ; you do her 
injustice ! ” 

“ My dear boy, you don’t mean to uphold her as a paragon 
of virtue ! ” 

“No, mother, but I led her wrong ; I ” 

“We will let all discussions into the cause or duration of 
her present character drop, if you please,” said Mrs. Belling- 
ham, with the sort of dignified authority which retained a 
certain power over her son — a power which originated in 
childhood, and which he only defied when he was roused 
into passion. He was too weak in body to oppose himself 
to her, and fight the ground inch by inch. “ As I have 
implied, I do not wish to ascertain your share of blame; 
from what I saw of her one morning, I am convinced of her 
forward, intrusive manners, utterly without shame, or even 
common modesty.” 

“What are you referring to?” asked Mr. Bellingham 
sharply. 

“Why, when you were at the worst, and I had been 
watching you all night, and had just gone out in the morn- 
ing for a breath of fresh air, this girl pushed herself before 
me, and insisted upon speaking to me. I really had to send 
Mrs. Morgan to her before I could return to your room. A 
more impudent, hardened manner, I never saw.” 

88 


Doing the Thing handsomely 

“ Ruth was neither impudent nor hardened ; she was 
ignorant enough, and might offend from knowing no 
better.” 

He was getting weary of the discussion, and wished it 
had never been begun. From the time he had become 
conscious of his mother’s presence he had felt the dilemma 
he was in, in regard to Ruth, and various plans had directly 
crossed his brain ; but it had been so troublesome to weigh 
and consider them all properly, that they had been put aside 
to be settled when he grew stronger. But this difficulty in 
which he was placed by his connection with Ruth, associated 
the idea of her in his mind with annoyance and angry regret 
at the whole affair. He wished, in the languid way in which 
he wished and felt everything not immediately relating to 
his daily comfort, that he had never seen her. It was a 
most awkward, a most unfortunate affair. Notwithstanding 
this annoyance connected with and arising out of Ruth, he 
would not submit to hear her abused ; and something in his 
manner impressed this on his mother, for she immediately 
changed her mode of attack. 

“We may as well drop all dispute as to the young 
woman’s manners ; but I suppose you do not mean to 
defend your connection with her ; I suppose you are not so 
lost to all sense of propriety as to imagine it fit or desirable 
that your mother and this degraded girl should remain under 
the same roof, liable to meet at any hour of the day ? ” She 
waited for an answer, but no answer came. 

“ I ask you a simple question ; is it, or is it not, de- 
sirable ? ” 

“ I suppose it is not,” he replied gloomily. 

“ And I suppose, from your manner, that you think the 
difficulty would be best solved by my taking my departure, 
and leaving you with your vicious companion ? ” 

Again no answer, but inward and increasing annoyance, 
of which Mr. Bellingham considered Ruth the cause. At 
length he spoke — 

“ Mother, you are not helping me in my difficulty. I 
89 


Ruth 

have no desire to banish you, nor to hurt you, after all your 
care for me. Euth has not been so much to blame as you 
imagine, that I must say; but I do not wish to see her 
again, if you can tell me how to arrange it otherwise, with- 
out behaving unhandsomely. Only spare me all this worry 
a while, I am so weak. I put myself in your hands. Dis- 
miss her, as you wish it ; but let it be done handsomely, and 
let me hear no more about it ; I cannot bear it ; let me have 
a quiet life, without being lectured, while I am pent up here, 
and unable to shake off unpleasant thoughts.” 

“ My dear Henry, rely upon me.” 

“ No more, mother ; it’s a bad business, and I can hardly 
avoid blaming myself in the matter. I don’t want to dwell 
upon it.” 

“ Don’t be too severe in your self-reproaches while you 
are so feeble, dear Henry ; it is right to repent, but I have 
no doubt in my own mind she led you wrong with her 
artifices. But, as you say, everything should be done hand- 
somely. I confess I was deeply grieved when I first heard 

of the affair, but since I have seen the girl Well ! I’ll 

say no more about her, since I see it displeases you ; but I 
am thankful to God that you see the error of your ways.” 

She sat silent, thinking for a little while, and then sent 
for her writing-case and began to write. Her son became 
restless, and nervously irritated. 

“ Mother,” he said, “ this affair- worries me to death. I 
cannot shake off the thoughts of it.” 

“ Leave it to me, I’ll arrange it satisfactorily.” 

“Could we not leave to-night? I should not be so 
haunted by this annoyance in another place. I dread seeing 
her again, because I fear a scene ; and yet I believe I ought 
to see her in order to explain.” 

“ You must not think of such a thing, Henry,” said she, 
alarmed at the very idea. “ Sooner than that, we will leave 
in half-an-hour, and try to get to Pen tre Yoelas to-night. 
It is not yet three, and the evenings are very long. Simpson 
should stay and finish the packing ; she could go straight to 

90 


Doing the Thing handsomely 

London and meet us there. Macdonald and nurse could go 
with us. Could you bear twenty miles, do you think ? ” 

Anything to get rid of his uneasiness. He felt that he 
was not behaving as he should do to Ruth, though the really 
right never entered his head. But it would extricate him 
from his present dilemma, and save him many lectures ; he 
knew that his mother, always liberal where money was 
concerned, would “ do the thing handsomely ” ; and it would 
always be easy to write and give Ruth what explanation he 
felt inclined, in a day or two ; so he consented, and soon lost 
some of his uneasiness in watching the bustle of the 
preparation for their departure. 

All this time Ruth was quietly spending in her room, 
beguiling the waiting, weary hours, with pictures of the 
meeting at the end. Her room looked to the back, and was 
in a side-wing away from the principal state apartments, 
consequently she was not roused to suspicion by any of the 
commotion ; but, indeed, if she had heard the banging of 
doors, the sharp directions, the carriage-wheels, she would 
still not have suspected the truth ; her own love was too 
faithful. 

It was four o’clock and past, when some one knocked at 
her door, and, on entering, gave her a note, which Mrs. 
Bellingham had left. That lady had found some difficulty 
in wording it so as to satisfy herself, but it was as follows : — 

“ My son, on recovering from his illness, is, I thank God, 
happily conscious of the sinful way in which he has been 
living with you. By his earnest desire, and in order to 
avoid seeing you again, we are on the point of leaving this 
place ; but, before I go, I wish to exhort you to repentance, 
and to remind you that you will not have your own guilt 
alone upon your head, but that of any young man whom you 
may succeed in entrapping into vice. I shall pray that 
you may turn to an honest life, and I strongly recommend 
you, if indeed you are not ‘dead in trespasses and sins,’ 
to enter some penitentiary. In accordance with my son’s 

9i 


Ruth 

wishes, I forward you in this envelope a bank-note of fifty 
pounds. 

“ Margaret Bellingham.” 

Was this the end of all ? Had he, indeed, gone ? She 
started up, and asked this last question of the servant, who, 
half guessing at the purport of the note, had lingered about 
the room, curious to see the effect produced. 

“ Iss, indeed, miss ; the carriage drove from the door as I 
came upstairs. You’ll see it now on the Yspytty road, if 
you’ll please to come to the window of No. 24.” 

Buth started up and followed the chambermaid. Ay, 
there it was, slowly winding up the steep, white road, on 
which it seemed to move at a snail’s pace. 

She might overtake him — she might — she might speak 
one farewell word to him, print his face on her heart with a 
last look— nay, when he saw her he might retract, and not 
utterly, for ever, leave her. Thus she thought ; and she flew 
back to her room, and snatching up her bonnet, ran, tying 
the strings with her trembling hands as she went down the 
stairs, out at the nearest door, little heeding the angry words 
of Mrs. Morgan ; for the hostess, more irritated at Mrs. 
Bellingham’s severe upbraiding at parting, than mollified by 
her ample payment, was offended by the circumstance of 
Buth, in her wild haste, passing through the prohibited front 
door. 

But Buth was away before Mrs. Morgan had finished her 
speech, out and away, scudding along the road, thought-lost 
in the breathless rapidity of her motion. Though her heart 
and head beat almost to bursting, what did it signify if she 
could but overtake the carriage ? It was a nightmare, con- 
stantly evading the most passionate wishes and endeavours, 
and constantly gaining ground. Every time it was visible it 
was in fact more distant, but Buth would not believe it. If 
she could but gain the summit of that weary everlasting hill, 
she believed that she could run again, and would soon be 
nigh upon the carriage. As she ran she prayed with wild 

92 


Doing the Thing handsomely 

eagerness ; she prayed that she might see his face once more, 
even if she died on the spot before him. It was one of those 
prayers which God is too merciful to grant ; but, despairing 
and wild as it was, Euth put her soul into it, and prayed it 
again, and yet again. 

Wave above wave of the ever-rising hills were gained, 
were crossed, and at last Euth struggled up to the very top 
and stood on the bare table of moor, brown and purple, 
stretching far away till it was lost in the haze of the summer 
afternoon ; the white road was all flat before her, but the 
carriage she sought, and the figure she sought, had dis- 
appeared. There was no human being there; a few wild, 
black-faced mountain sheep, quietly grazing near the road, 
as if it were long since they had been disturbed by the 
passing of any vehicle, was all the life she saw on the bleak 
moorland. 

She threw herself down on the ling by the side of the 
road, in despair. Her only hope was to die, and she believed 
she was dying. She could not think; she could believe 
anything. Surely life was a horrible dream, and God would 
mercifully awaken her from it ? She had no penitence, no 
consciousness of error or offence : no knowledge of any one 
circumstance but that he was gone. Yet afterwards — long 
afterwards — she remembered the exact motion of a bright 
green beetle busily meandering among the wild thyme near 
her, and she recalled the musical, balanced, wavering drop 
of a skylark into her nest, near the heather-bed where she 
lay. The sun was sinking low, the hot air had ceased to 
quiver near the hotter earth, when she bethought her once 
more of the note which she had impatiently thrown down 
before half mastering its contents. “ Oh, perhaps,” she 
thought, “I have been too hasty. There may be some 
words of explanation from him on the other side of the page, 
to which, in my blind anguish, I never turned. I will go 
and find it.” 

She lifted herself heavily and stiffly from the crushed 
heather. She stood dizzy and confused with her change of 

93 


Ruth 

posture ; and was so unable to move at first, that her walk 
was but slow and tottering ; but, by-and-by, she was tasked 
and goaded by thoughts which forced her into rapid motion, 
as if, by it, she could escape from her agony. She came 
down on the level ground, just as many gay or peaceful 
groups were sauntering leisurely home with hearts at ease ; 
with low laughs and quiet smiles, and many an exclamation 
at the beauty of the summer evening. 

Ever since her adventure with the little boy and his 
sister, Ruth had habitually avoided encountering these happy 
— innocents, may I call them ? — these happy fellow-mortals ! 
And even now, the habit grounded on sorrowful humiliation 
had power over her ; she paused, and then, on looking back, 
she saw more people who had come into the main road from 
a side-path. She opened a gate into a pasture-field, and 
crept up to the hedge-bank until all, should have passed by, 
and she could steal into the inn unseen. She sat down on 
the sloping turf by the roots of an old hawthorn tree which 
grew in the hedge ; she was still tearless, with hot burning 
eyes ; she heard the merry walkers pass by ; she heard the 
footsteps of the village children as they ran along to their 
evening play ; she saw the small black cows come into the 
fields after being milked ; and life seemed yet abroad. When 
would the world be still and dark, and fit for such a deserted, 
desolate creature as she was ? Even in her hiding-place she 
was not long at peace. The little children, with their curious 
eyes peering here and there, had peeped through the hedge, 
and through the gate, and now they gathered from all the 
four corners of the hamlet, and crowded round the gate ; and 
one more adventurous than the rest had run into the field to 
cry, “ Gi’ me a halfpenny,” which set the example to every 
little one, emulous of his boldness ; and there, where she sat, 
low on the ground, and longing for the sure hiding-place 
earth gives to the weary, the children kept running in, and 
pushing one another forwards and laughing. Poor things ! 
their time had not come for understanding what sorrow is. 
Ruth would have begged them to leave her alone, and not 

94 


Doing the Thing handsomely 

madden her utterly ; but they knew no English save the one 
eternal “ Gi’ me a halfpenny.” She felt in her heart that 
there was no pity anywhere. Suddenly, while she thus 
doubted God, a shadow fell across her garments, on which 
her miserable eyes were bent. She looked up. The de- 
formed gentleman she had twice before seen stood there. 
He had been attracted by the noisy little crowd, and had 
questioned them in Welsh ; but, not understanding enough of 
the language to comprehend their answers, he had obeyed 
their signs, and entered the gate to which they pointed. 
There he saw the young girl whom he had noticed at first 
for her innocent beauty, and the second time for the idea he 
had gained respecting her situation; there he saw her, 
crouched up like some hunted creature, with a wild, scared 
look of despair, which almost made her lovely face seem 
fierce ; he saw her dress soiled and dim, her bonnet crushed 
and battered with her tossings to and fro on the moorland 
bed ; he saw the poor, lost wanderer, and when he saw her 
he had compassion on her. 

There was some look of heavenly pity in his eyes, as 
gravely and sadly they met her upturned gaze, which 
touched her stony heart. Still looking at him, as if drawing 
some good influence from him, she said low and mournfully, 
“ He has left me, sir ! — sir, he has indeed ! — he has gone 
and left me ! ” 

Before he could speak a word to comfort her, she had 
burst into the wildest, dreariest crying ever mortal cried. 
The settled form of the event, when put into words, went 
sharp to her heart ; her moans and sobs wrung his soul ; 
but, as no speech of his could be heard, if he had been able 
to decide what best to say, he stood by her in apparent 
calmness, while she, wretched, wailed and uttered her woe. 
But when she lay worn out, and stupefied into silence, she 
heard him say to himself in a low voice — 

“ Oh, my God ! for Christ’s sake, pity her ! ” 

Ruth lifted up her eyes, and looked at him with a dim 
perception of the meaning of his words. She regarded him 

95 


Ruth 

fixedly in a dreamy way, as if they struck some chord in her 
heart, and she were listening to its echo; and so it was. 
His pitiful look, or his words, reminded her of the childish 
days when she knelt at her mother’s knee ; and she was only 
conscious of a straining, longing desire to recall it all. 

He let her take her time, partly because he was powerfully 
affected himself by all the circumstances, and by the sad 
pale face upturned to his ; and partly by an instinctive con- 
sciousness that the softest patience was required. But 
suddenly she startled him, as she herself was startled into 
a keen sense of the suffering agony of the present ; she 
sprang up and pushed him aside, and went rapidly towards 
the gate of the field. He could not move as quickly as most 
men, but he put forth his utmost speed. He followed across 
the road, on to the rocky common ; but, as he went along, 
with his uncertain gait, in the dusk glpaming, he stumbled, and 
fell over some sharp projecting stone. The acute pain which 
shot up his back forced a short cry from him ; and, when 
bird and beast are hushed into rest and the stillness of night 
is over all, a high-pitched sound, like the voice of pain, is 
carried far in the quiet air. Ruth, speeding on in her 
despair, heard the sharp utterance, and stopped suddenly 
short. It did what no remonstrance could have done ; it 
called her out of herself. The tender nature was in her 
still, in that hour when all good angels seemed to have 
abandoned her. In the old days she could never bear to 
hear or see bodily suffering in any of God’s meanest 
creatures, without trying to succour them ; and now, in 
her rush to the awful death of the suicide, she stayed her 
wild steps, and turned to find from whom that sharp sound 
of anguish had issued. 

He lay among the white stones, too faint with pain to 
move, but with an agony in his mind far keener than any- 
bodily pain, as he thought that by his unfortunate fall he 
had lost all chance of saving her. He was almost over- 
powered by his intense thankfulness when he saw her white 
figure pause, and stand listening, and turn again with slow 

96 


Doing the Thing handsomely 

footsteps, as if searching for some lost thing. He could 
hardly speak, but he made a sound which, though his heart 
was inexpressibly glad, was like a groan. She came quickly 
towards him. 

“ I am hurt,” said he ; “do not leave me ; ” his disabled 
and tender frame was overcome by the accident and the 
previous emotions, and he fainted away. Ruth flew to the 
little mountain stream, the dashing sound of whose waters 
had been tempting her, but a moment before, to seek forget- 
fulness in the deep pool into which they fell. She made a 
basin of her joined hands, and carried enough of the cold 
fresh water back to dash into his face and restore him to 
consciousness. While he still kept silence, uncertain what to 
say best fitted to induce her to listen to him, she said softly — 

“ Are you better, sir ? — are you very much hurt ? ” 

“Not very much ; I am better. Any quick movement 
is apt to cause me a sudden loss of power in my back, and 
I believe I stumbled over some of these projecting stones. It 
will soon go off, and you will help me to go home, I am sure.” 

“ Oh, yes ! Can you go now ? I am afraid of your 
lying too long on this heather ; there is a heavy dew.” 

He was so anxious to comply with her wish, and not 
weary out her thought for him, and so turn her back upon 
herself, that he tried to rise. The pain was acute, and this 
she saw. 

“ Don’t hurry yourself, sir ; I can wait.” 

Then came across her mind the recollection of the 
business that was thus deferred ; but the few homely words 
which had been exchanged between them seemed to have 
awakened her from her madness. She sat down by him, 
and covering her face with her hands, cried mournfully and 
unceasingly. She forgot his presence, and yet she had a 
consciousness that some one looked for her kind offices, that 
she was wanted in the world, and must not rush hastily out 
of it. The consciousness did not take this definite form, it 
did not become a thought, but it kept her still, and it was 
gradually soothing her. 


97 


H 


Ruth 

“ Can yon help me to rise now ? ” said he, after a while. 
She did not speak, but she helped him up, and then he took 
her arm, and she led him tenderly through all the little 
velvet paths, where the turf grew short and soft between the 
rugged stones. Once more on the highway, they slowly 
passed along in the moonlight. He guided her by a slight 
motion of the arm, through the more unfrequented lanes, to 
his lodgings at the shop ; for he thought for her, and con- 
ceived the pain she would have in seeing the lighted windows 
of the inn. He leant more heavily on her arm, as they 
awaited the opening of the door. 

“ Come in,” said he, not relaxing his hold, and yet 
dreading to tighten it, lest she should defy restraint, and 
once more rush away. 

They went slowly into the little parlour behind the shop. 
The bonny-looking hostess, Mrs. Hughes by name, made 
haste to light the candle, and then they saw each other, face 
to face. The deformed gentleman looked very pale, but 
Ruth looked as if the shadow of death was upon her. 


CHAPTER IX 

THE STORM-SPIRIT SUBDUED 

Mrs. Hughes bustled about with many a sympathetic 
exclamation, now in pretty broken English, now in more 
fluent Welsh, which sounded as soft as Russian or Italian, 
in her musical voice. Mr. Benson, for that was the name of 
the hunchback, lay on the sofa thinking; while the tender 
Mrs. Hughes made every arrangement for his relief from 
pain. He had lodged with her for three successive years, 
and she knew and loved him. 

Ruth stood in the little bow-window, looking out. Across 
the moon, and over the deep blue heavens, large, torn, 
irregular-shaped clouds went hurrying, as if summoned by 

98 


The Storm-spirit subdued 

some storm- spirit. The work they were commanded to do 
was not here; the mighty gathering-place lay eastward, 
immeasurable leagues ; and on they went, chasing each 
other over the silent earth, now black, now silver- white at 
one transparent edge, now with the moon shining like Hope 
through their darkest centre, now again with a silver lining ; 
and now, utterly black, they sailed lower in the lift, and 
disappeared behind the immovable mountains ; they were 
rushing in the very direction in which Ruth had striven and 
struggled to go that afternoon; they, in their wild career, 
would soon pass over the very spot where he (her world’s 
he) was lying sleeping, or perhaps not sleeping, perhaps 
thinking of her. The storm was in her mind, and rent and 
tore her purposes into forms as wild and irregular as the 
heavenly shapes she was looking at. If, like them, she 
could pass the barrier horizon in the night, she might 
overtake him. 

Mr. Benson saw her look, and read it partially. He saw 
her longing gaze outwards upon the free, broad world, and 
thought that the siren waters, whose deadly music yet rang 
in his ears, were again tempting her. He called her to him, 
praying that his feeble voice might have power. 

“ My dear young lady, I have much to say to you ; and 
God has taken my strength from me now when I most need 
it. — Oh, I sin to speak so — but, for His sake, I implore you 
to be patient here, if only till to-morrow morning.” He 
looked at her, but her face was immovable, and she did not 
speak. She could not give up her hope, her chance, her 
liberty, till to-morrow. 

“ God help me,” said he mournfully, “ my words do not 
touch her ; ” and, still holding her hand, he sank back on the 
pillows. Indeed, it was true that his words did not vibrate in 
her atmosphere. The storm-spirit raged there, and filled her 
heart with the thought that she was an outcast; and the 
holy words, “ for His sake,” were answered by the demon, 
who held possession, with a blasphemous defiance of the 
merciful God — 

99 

LOFC. 


Ruth 

“ What have I to do with Thee ? ” 

He thought of every softening influence of religion which 
over his own disciplined heart had power, but put them aside 
as useless. Then the still small voice whispered, and he 
spake — 

“ In your mother’s name, whether she be dead or alive, I 
command you to stay here until I am able to speak to you.” 

She knelt down at the foot of the sofa, and shook it with 
her sobs. Her heart was touched, and he hardly dared to 
speak again. At length he said — 

“I know you will not go — you could not— for her sake. 
You will not, will you ? ” 

“No,” whispered Euth ; and then there was a great blank 
in her heart. She had given up her chance. She was calm, 
in the utter absence of all hope. 

“ And now you will do what I tell you ? ” said he gently, 
but unconsciously to himself, in the tone of one who has 
found the hidden spell by which to rule spirits. 

She slowly said, “ Yes.” But she was subdued. 

He called Mrs. Hughes. She came from her adjoining 
shop. 

“ You have a bedroom within yours, where your daughter 
used to sleep, I think ? Iam sure you will oblige me, and I 
shall consider it as a great favour, if you will allow this young 
lady to sleep there to-night. Will you take her there now ? 
Go, my dear. I have full trust in your promise not to leave 
until I can speak to you.” His voice died away to silence ; 
but as Ruth rose from her knees at his bidding, she looked at 
his face through her tears. His lips were moving in earnest, 
unspoken prayer, and she knew it was for her. 

That night, although his pain was relieved by rest, he 
could not sleep ; and, as in fever, the coming events kept un- 
rolling themselves before him in every changing and fantastic 
form. He met Euth in all possible places and ways, and 
addressed her in every manner he could imagine most calcu- 
lated to move and affect her to penitence and virtue. Towards 
morning he fell asleep, but the same thoughts haunted his 

ioo 


The Storm-spirit subdued 

dreams ; he spoke, but his voice refused to utter aloud ; and 
she fled, relentless, to the deep, black pool. 

But God works in His own way. 

The visions melted into deep, unconscious sleep. He was 
awakened by a knock at the door, which seemed a repetition 
of what he had heard in his last sleeping moments. 

It was Mrs. Hughes. She stood at the first word of per- 
mission within the room. 

“ Please, sir, I think the young lady is very ill indeed, 
sir ; perhaps you would please to come to her.” 

“ How is she ill ? ” said he, much alarmed. 

“ Quite quiet-like, sir ; but I think she is dying, that’s all, 
indeed, sir.” 

“ Go away, I will be with you directly,” he replied, his 
heart sinking within him. 

In a very short time he was standing with Mrs. Hughes by 
Ruth’s bedside. She lay as still as if she were dead, her eyes 
shut, her wan face numbed into a fixed anguish of expression. 
She did not speak when they spoke, though after a while 
they thought she strove to do so. But all power of motion 
and utterance had left her. She was dressed in everything, 
except her bonnet, as she had been the day before ; although 
sweet, thoughtful Mrs. Hughes had provided her with night- 
gear, which lay on the little chest of drawers that served as 
a dressing-table. Mr. Benson lifted up her arm to feel her 
feeble, fluttering pulse ; and when he let go her hand, it fell 
upon the bed in a dull, heavy way, as if she were already 
dead. 

“You gave her some food ? ” said he anxiously, to Mrs. 
Hughes. 

“ Indeed, and I offered her the best in the house, but she 
shook her poor pretty head, and only asked if I would please 
to get her a cup of water. I brought her some milk though ; 
and, ’deed, I think she’d rather have had the water ; but, not 
to seem sour and cross, she took some milk.” By this time 
Mrs. Hughes was fairly crying. 

“ When does the doctor come up here ? ” 
ioi 


Ruth 

“ Indeed, sir, and he’s np nearly every day now, the inn 
is so full.” 

“ I’ll go for him. And can yon manage to undress her 
and lay her in bed ? Open the window too, and let in the 
air; if her feet are cold, put bottles of hot water to them.” 

It was a proof of the true love, which was the nature of 
both, that it never crossed their minds to regret that this 
poor young creature had been thus thrown upon their hands. 
On the contrary, Mrs. Hughes called it “ a blessing.” 

“ It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.” 


CHAPTEE X 

A NOTE AND THE ANSWER 

At the inn everything was life and bustle. Mr. Benson had 
to wait long in Mrs. Morgan’s little parlour before she could 
come to him, and he kept growing more and more impatient. 
At last she made her appearance and heard his story. 

People may talk as they will about the little respect that 
is paid to virtue, unaccompanied by the outward accidents 
of wealth or station ; but I rather think it will be found that, 
in the long run, true and simple virtue always has its pro- 
portionate reward in the respect and reverence of every one 
whose esteem is worth having. To be sure, it is not rewarded 
after the way of the world, as mere worldly possessions are, 
with low obeisance and lip-service ; but all the better and 
more noble qualities in the hearts of others make ready and 
go forth to meet it on its approach, provided only it be pure, 
simple, and unconscious of its own existence. 

Mr. Benson had little thought for outward tokens of 
respect just then, nor had Mrs. Morgan much time to spare ; 
but she smoothed her ruffled brow, and calmed her bustling 
manner, as soon as ever she saw who it was that awaited 


102 


A Note and the Answer 

her; for Mr. Benson was well known in the village, where 
he had taken up his summer holiday among the mountains 
year after year, always a resident at the shop, and seldom 
spending a shilling at the inn. 

Mrs. Morgan listened patiently — for her. 

“ Mr. Jones will come this afternoon. But it is a shame 
you should be troubled with such as her. I had but little 
time yesterday, but I guessed there was something wrong, 
and Gwen has just been telling me her bed has not been 
slept in. They were in a pretty hurry to be gone yesterday, 
for all that the gentleman was not fit to travel, to my way 
of thinking; indeed, William Wynn, the post-boy, said he 
was weary enough before he got to the end of that Yspytty 
road ; and he thought they would have to rest there a day 
or two before they could go further than Pen tr6 Yoelas. 
Indeed, and anyhow, the servant is to follow them with the 
baggage this very morning ; and now I remember, William 
Wynn said they would wait for her. You’d better write a 
note, Mr. Benson, and tell them her state.” 

It was sound, though unpalatable advice. It came from 
one accustomed to bring excellent, if unrefined sense, to bear 
quickly upon any emergency, and to decide rapidly. She 
was, in truth, so little accustomed to have her authority 
questioned, that, before Mr. Benson had made up his mind, 
she had produced paper, pens, and ink from the drawer in 
her bureau, placed them before him, and was going to leave 
the room. 

“ Leave the note on this shelf, and trust me that it goes 
by the maid. The boy that drives her there in the car shall 
bring you an answer back.” 

She was gone before he could rally his scattered senses 
enough to remember that he had not the least idea of the 
name of the person to whom he was to write. The quiet 
leisure and peace of his little study at home favoured his 
habit of reverie and long deliberation, just as her position 
as mistress of an inn obliged her to quick, decisive ways. 

Her advice, though good in some points, was unpalatable 
103 


Ruth 

in others. It was true that Ruth’s condition ought to be 
known by those who were her friends ; but were these people 
to whom he was now going to write friends ? He knew there 
was a rich mother, and a handsome, elegant son ; and he 
had also some idea of the circumstances which might a little 
extenuate their mode of quitting Ruth. He had wide-enough 
sympathy to understand that it must have been a most pain- 
ful position in which the mother had been placed, on finding 
herself under the same roof with a girl who was living with 
her son, as Ruth was. And yet he did not like to apply to 
her ; to write to the son was still more out of the question, 
as it seemed like asking him to return. But through one or 
the other lay the only clue to her friends, who certainly 
ought to be made acquainted with her position. At length 
he wrote — 

“ Madam, — I write to tell you of the condition of the poor 
young woman ” — (here came a long pause of deliberation) — 
“who accompanied your son on his arrival here, and who 
was left behind on your departure yesterday. She is lying (as 
it appears to me) in a very dangerous state at my lodgings ; 
and, if I may suggest, it would be kind to allow your maid to 
return and attend upon her until she is sufficiently recovered 
to be restored to her friends, if, indeed, they could not come 
to take charge of her themselves. — I remain, madam, your 
obedient servant, Thurstan Benson.” 

The note was very unsatisfactory after all his considera- 
tion, but it was the best he could do. He made inquiry of a 
passing servant as to the lady’s name, directed the note, and 
placed it on the indicated shelf. He then returned to his 
lodgings, to await the doctor’s coming and the postboy’s 
return. There was no alteration in Ruth; she was as one 
stunned into unconsciousness ; she did not move her posture, 
she hardly breathed. From time to time Mrs. Hughes wetted 
her mouth with some liquid, and there was a little mechanical 
motion of the lips ; that was the only sign of life she gave. 

104 


A Note and the Answer 

The doctor came and shook his head, — “ a thorough prostra- 
tion of strength, occasioned by some great shock on the 
nerves,” — and prescribed care and quiet, and mysterious 
medicines, but acknowledged that the result was doubt- 
ful, very doubtful. After his departure, Mr. Benson took 
his Welsh grammar and tried again to master the ever- 
puzzling rules for the mutations of letters ; but it was of no 
use, for his thoughts were absorbed by the life-in-death 
condition of the young creature, who was lately bounding 
and joyous. 

The maid and the luggage, the car and the driver, had 
arrived before noon at their journey’s end, and the note had 
been delivered. It annoyed Mrs. Bellingham exceedingly. 
It was the worst of these kind of connections, — there was 
no calculating the consequences ; they were never-ending. 
All sorts of claims seemed to be established, and all sorts of 
people to step in to their settlement. The idea of sending 
her maid !. Why, Simpson would not go if she asked her. 
She soliloquised thus while reading the letter; and then, 
suddenly turning round to the favourite attendant, who had 
been listening to her mistress’s remarks with no inattentive 
ear, she asked — 

“ Simpson, would you go and nurse this creature, as 
this ” she looked at the signature — “ Mr. Benson, who- 

ever he is, proposes ? ” 

“ Me ! no, indeed, ma’am,” said the maid, drawing her- 
self up, stiff in her virtue. “ I’m sure, ma’am, you would 
not expect it of me ; I could never have the face to dress a 
lady of character again.” 

“ Well, well ! don’t be alarmed ; I cannot spare you : by 
the way, just attend to the strings on my dress ; the 
chambermaid here pulled them into knots, and broke them 
terribly, last night. It is awkward, though, very,” said she, 
relapsing into a musing fit over the condition of Buth. 

“If you’ll allow me, ma’am, I think I might say some- 
thing that would alter the case. I believe, ma’am, you put a 
bank-note into the letter to the young woman yesterday ? ” 

105 


Ruth 

Mrs. Bellingham bowed acquiescence, and the maid went 
on — 

“ Because, ma’am, when the little deformed man wrote 
that note (he’s Mr. Benson, ma’am), I have reason to believe 
neither he nor Mrs. Morgan knew of any provision being 
made for the young woman. Me and the chambermaid 
found your letter and the bank-note lying quite promiscuous, 
like waste paper, on the floor of her room ; for I believe she 
rushed out like mad after you left.” 

“ That, as you say, alters the case. This letter, then, 
is principally a sort of delicate hint that some provision 
ought to have been made ; which is true enough, only 
it has been attended to already. What became of the 
money ? ” 

“ Law, ma’am ! do you ask ? Of course, as soon as I saw 
it, I picked it up and took it to Mrs. Morgan, in trust for the 
young person.” 

“ Oh, that’s right. What friends has she ? Did you 
ever hear from Mason ? — perhaps they ought to know where 
she is.” 

“ Mrs. Mason did tell me, ma’am, she was an orphan ; 
with a guardian who was noways akin, and who washed his 
hands of her when she ran off. But Mrs. Mason was sadly 
put out, and went into hysterics, for fear you would think 
she had not seen after her enough, and that she might lose 
your custom ; she said it was no fault of hers, for the girl 
was always a forward creature, boasting of her beauty, and 
saying how pretty she was, and striving to get where her 
good looks could be seen and admired, — one night in par- 
ticular, ma’am, at a county ball ; and how Mrs. Mason had 
found out she used to meet Mr. Bellingham at an old woman’s 
house, who was a regular old witch, ma’am, and lives in 
the lowest part of the town, where all the bad characters 
haunt.” 

“ There ! that’s enough,” said Mrs. Bellingham sharply, 
for the maid’s chattering had outrun her tact ; and in her 
anxiety to vindicate the character of her friend Mrs. Mason 

106 


A Note and the Answer 

by blackening that of Ruth, she had forgotten that she a 
little implicated her mistress’s son, whom his proud mother 
did not like to imagine as ever passing through a low and 
degraded part of the town. 

“ If she has no friends, and is the creature you describe 
(which is confirmed by my own observation), the best place 
for her is, as I said before, the Penitentiary. Her fifty 
pounds will keep her a week or so, if she is really unable 
to travel, and pay for her journey ; and if on her return to 
Fordham she will let me know, I will undertake to obtain 
her admission immediately.” 

“ I’m sure it’s well for her she has to do with a lady 
who will take any interest in her, after what has happened.” 

Mrs. Bellingham called for her writing-desk, and wrote 
a few hasty lines to be sent by the post-boy, who was on 
the point of starting — 

“ Mrs. Bellingham presents her compliments to her 
unknown correspondent, Mr. Benson, and begs to inform 
him of a circumstance of which she believes he was ignorant 
when he wrote the letter with which she has been favoured ; 
namely, that provision to the amount of £50 was left for 
the unfortunate young person who is the subject of Mr. 
Benson’s letter. This sum is in the hands of Mrs. Morgan, 
as well as a note from Mrs. Bellingham to the miserable girl, 
in which she proposes to procure her admission into the 
Fordham Penitentiary, the best place for such a character, 
as by this profligate action she has forfeited the only friend 
remaining to her in the world. This proposition Mrs. 
Bellingham repeats ; and they are the young woman’s best 
friends who most urge her to comply with the course now 
pointed out.” 

“ Take care Mr. Bellingham hears nothing of this Mr. 
Benson’s note,” said Mrs. Bellingham, as she delivered the 
answer to her maid ; “ he is so sensitive just now that it 
would annoy him sadly, I am sure.” 

107 


Ruth 


CHAPTER XI 

THURSTAN AND FAITH BENSON 

You have now seen the note which was delivered into Mr. 
Benson’s hands, as the cool shades of evening stole over the 
glowing summer sky. When he had read it, he again pre- 
pared to write a few hasty lines before the post went out. 
The post-boy was even now sounding his horn through the 
village as a signal for letters to be ready ; and it was well 
that Mr. Benson, in his long morning’s meditation, had 
decided upon the course to be pursued, in case of such an 
answer as that which he had received from Mrs. Bellingham. 
His present note was as follows ; — 

“ Dear Faith, — You must come to this place directly, 
where I earnestly desire you and your advice. I am well 
myself, so do not be alarmed. I have no time for explana- 
tion, but I am sure you will not refuse me ; let me trust 
that I shall see you on Saturday at the latest. You know 
the mode by which I came ; it is the best both for expedi- 
tion and cheapness. Dear Faith, do not fail me. — Your 
affectionate brother, Thurstan Benson. 

“ P.S. — I am afraid the money I left may be running 
short. Do not let this stop you. Take my Facciolati to 
Johnson’s, he will advance upon it ; it is the third row, 
bottom shelf. Only come.” 

When this letter was despatched he had done all he 
could ; and the next two days passed like a long monotonous 
dream of watching, thought, and care, undisturbed by any 
event, hardly by the change from day to night, which, now 
the harvest moon was at her full, was scarcely perceptible. 
On Saturday morning the answer came — • 

108 


Thurstan and Faith Benson 

“ Dearest Thurstan,— Your incomprehensible summons 
has just reached me, and I obey, thereby proving my right 
to my name of Faith. I shall be with you almost as soon 
as this letter. I cannot help feeling anxious, as well as 
curious. I have money enough, and it is well I have ; for 
. Sally, who guards your room like a dragon, would rather 
see me walk the whole way, than have any of your things 
disturbed. — Your affectionate sister, 

“ Faith Benson.” 

It was a great relief to Mr. Benson to think that his 
sister would so soon be with him. He had been accustomed 
from childhood to rely on her prompt judgment and excellent 
sense ; and to her care he felt that Buth ought to be con- 
signed, as it was too much to go on taxing good Mrs. Hughes 
with night watching and sick nursing, with all her other 
claims on her time. He asked her once more to sit by Buth, 
while he went to meet his sister. 

The coach passed by the foot of the steep ascent which 
led up to Llan-dhu. He took a boy to carry his sister’s 
luggage when they arrived; they were too soon at the 
bottom of the hill ; and the boy began to make ducks and 
drakes in the shallowest part of the stream, which there 
flowed glassy and smooth, while Mr. Benson sat down on 
a great stone, under the shadow of an alderbush which grew 
where the green flat meadow skirted the water. It was 
delightful to be once more in the open air, and away from 
the scenes and thoughts which had been pressing on him 
for the last three days. There was a new beauty in every- 
thing: from the blue mountains which glimmered in the 
distant sunlight, down to the flat, rich, peaceful vale, with 
its calm round shadows, where he sat. The very margin of 
white pebbles which lay on the banks of the stream had a 
sort of cleanly beauty about it. He felt calmer and more at 
ease than he had done for some days ; and yet, when he 
began to think, it was rather a strange story which he had 
to tell his sister, in order to account for his urgent summons. 

109 


Ruth 

Here was he, sole friend and guardian of a poor sick girl, 
whose very name he did not know ; about whom all that he 
did know was, that she had been the mistress of a man who 
had deserted her, and that he feared — he believed --she had 
contemplated suicide. The offence, too, was one for which 
his sister, good and kind as she was, had little compassion. 
Well, he must appeal to her love for him, which was a very 
unsatisfactory mode of proceeding, as he would far rather 
have had her interest in the girl founded on reason, or 
some less personal basis, than showing it merely because 
her brother wished it. 

The coach came slowly rumbling over the stony road. 
His sister was outside, but got down in a brisk active way, 
and greeted her brother heartily and affectionately. She 
was considerably taller than he was, and must have been 
very handsome ; her black hair was parted plainly over her 
forehead, and her dark expressive eyes and straight nose 
still retained the beauty of her youth. I do not know 
whether she was older than her brother ; but, probably owing 
to his infirmity requiring her care, she had something of a 
mother’s manner towards him. 

“ Thurstan, you are looking pale ! I do not believe you 
are well, whatever you may say. Have you had the old 
pain in your back ? ” 

“ No — a little — never mind that, dearest Faith. Sit down 
here, while I send the boy up with your box.” And then, 
with some little desire to show his sister how well he was 
acquainted with the language, he blundered out his directions 
in very grammatical Welsh ; so grammatical, in fact, and so 
badly pronounced, that the boy, scratching his head, made 
answer — 

“ Dim Saesoneg.” 

So he had to repeat it in English. 

“Well, now, Thurstan, here I sit as you bid me. But 
don’t try me too long ; tell me why you sent for me.” 

Now came the difficulty, and oh ! for a seraph’s tongue, 
and a seraph’s powers of representation ! But there was no 

no 


Thurstan and Faith Benson 

seraph at hand, only the soft running waters singing a quiet 
tune, and predisposing Miss Benson to listen with a soothed 
spirit to any tale, not immediately involving her brother’s 
welfare, which had been the cause of her seeing that lovely 
vale. 

“It is an awkward story to tell, Faith, but there is a 
young woman lying ill at my lodgings whom I wanted you 
to nurse.” 

He thought he saw a shadow on his sister’s face, and 
detected a slight change in her voice as she spoke. 

“ Nothing very romantic, I hope, Thurstan. Remember, 
I cannot stand much romance ; I always distrust it.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean by romance. The story 
is real enough, and not out of the common way, I’m afraid.” 

He paused ; he did not get over the difficulty. 

“ Well, tell it me at once, Thurstan. I am afraid you 
have let some one, or perhaps only your own imagination, 
impose upon you ; but don’t try my patience too much ; you 
know I’ve no great stock.” 

“ Then I’ll tell you. The young girl was brought to the 
inn here by a gentleman, who has left her ; she is very ill, 
and has no one to see after her.” 

Miss Benson had some masculine tricks, and one was 
whistling a long, low whistle when surprised or displeased. 
She had often found it a useful vent for feelings, and she 
whistled now. Her brother would rather she had spoken. 

“ Have you sent for her friends ? ” she asked, at last. 

“ She has none.” 

Another pause and another whistle, but rather softer and 
more w T avering than the last. 

“ How is she ill ? ” 

“ Pretty nearly as quiet as if she were dead. She does 
not speak, or move, or even sigh.” 

“ It would be better for her to die at once, I think.” 

“ Faith ! ” 

That one word put them right. It was spoken in the 
tone which had authority over her; it was so full of grieved 

hi 


Ruth 

surprise and mournful upbraiding. She was accustomed to 
exercise a sway over him, owing to her greater decision of 
character, and, probably, if everything were traced to its 
cause, to her superior vigour of constitution; but at times 
she was humbled before his pure, childlike nature, and felt 
where she was inferior. She was too good and true to 
conceal this feeling, or to resent its being forced upon her. 
After a time she said — 

“ Thurstan dear, let us go to her.” 

She helped him with tender care, and gave him her arm 
up the long and tedious hill ; but when they approached the 
village, without speaking a word on the subject, they changed 
their position, and she leant (apparently) on him. He 
stretched himself up into as vigorous a gait as he could, 
when they drew near to the abodes of men. 

On the way they had spoken but little. He had asked 
after various members of his congregation, for he was a 
Dissenting minister in a country town, and she had 
answered ; but they neither of them spoke of Euth, though 
their minds were full of her. 

Mrs. Hughes had tea ready for the traveller on her arrival. 
Mr. Benson chafed a little internally at the leisurely way in 
which his sister sipped and sipped, and paused to tell him 
some trifling particular respecting home affairs, which she 
had forgotten before. 

“ Mr. Bradshaw has refused to let the children associate 
with the Dixons any longer, because one evening they played 
at acting charades.” 

“ Indeed ! A little more bread and butter, Faith ? ” 

“ Thank you : this Welsh air does make one hungry. 
Mrs. Bradshaw is paying poor old Maggie’s rent, to save her 
from being sent into the workhouse.” 

“ That’s right. Won’t you have another cup of tea ? ” 

“ I have had two. However, I think I’ll take another.” 

Mr. Benson could not refrain from a little sigh as he 
poured it out. He thought he had never seen his sister so 
deliberately hungry and thirsty before. He did not guess 

1 1 2 


Thurstan and Faith Benson 

that she was feeling the meal rather a respite from a dis- 
tasteful interview, which she was aware was awaiting her at 
its conclusion. But all things come to an end, and so did 
Miss Benson’s tea. 

“ Now, will you go and see her ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

And so they went. Mrs. Hughes had pinned up a piece 
of green calico, by way of a Venetian blind, to shut out the 
afternoon sun ; and in the light thus shaded lay Ruth— still, 
and wan, and white. Even with her brother’s account of 
Ruth’s state, such death-like quietness startled Miss Benson 
— startled her into pity for the poor lovely creature who lay 
thus stricken and felled. When she saw her, she could no 
longer imagine her to be an impostor, or a hardened sinner ; 
such prostration of woe belonged to neither. Mr. Benson 
looked more at his sister’s face than at Ruth’s ; he read her 
countenance as a book. 

Mrs. Hughes stood by, crying. 

Mr. Benson touched his sister, and they left the room 
together. 

t “ Bo you think she will live ? ” asked he. 

“ I cannot tell,” said Miss Benson, in a softened voice. 

“ But how young she looks ! quite a child, poor creature ! 
When will the doctor come, Thurstan ? Tell me all about 
her ; you have never told me the particulars.” 

Mr. Benson might have said she had never cared to hear 
them before, and had rather avoided the subject ; but he 
was too happy to see this awakening of interest in his 
sister’s warm heart to say anything in the least reproachful. 
He told her the story as well as he could, and, as he felt it 
deeply, he told it with heart’s eloquence ; and as he ended, 
and looked at her, there were tears in the eyes of both. 

“ And what does the doctor say ? ” asked she, after a 
pause. 

“ He insists upon quiet ; he orders medicines and strong 
broth. I cannot tell you all ; Mrs. Hughes can. She has been 
so truly good. ‘ Doing good, hoping for nothing again.’ ” 

ii 3 i 


Ruth 

“ She looks very sweet and gentle. I shall sit up to- 
night, and watch her myself ; and I shall send you and Mrs. 
Hughes early to bed, for you have both a worn look about 
you I don’t like. Are you sure the effect of that fall has 
gone off? Do you feel anything of it in your back still? 
After all, I owe her something for turning back to your 
help. Are you sure she was going to drown herself ? ” 

“ I cannot be sure, for I have not questioned her. She 
has not been in a state to be questioned ; but I have no 
doubt whatever about it. But you must not think of sitting 
up after your journey, Faith.” 

“ Answer me, Thurstan. Do you feel any bad effect from 
that fall ? ” 

“ No, hardly any. Don’t sit up, Faith, to-night ! ” 

“ Thurstan, it’s no use talking, for I shall ; and, if you 
go on opposing me, I dare say I shall attack your back, and 
put a bhster on it. Do tell me what that ‘ hardly any ’ 
means. Besides, to set you quite at ease, you know I have 
never seen mountains before, and they fill me and oppress 
me so much that I could not sleep; I must keep awake 
this first night, and see that they don’t fall on the earth 
and overwhelm it. And now answer my questions about 
yourself.” 

Miss Benson had the power, which some people have, of 
carrying her wishes through to their fulfilment ; her will was 
strong, her sense was excellent, and people yielded to her — 
they did not know why. Before ten o’clock she reigned sole 
power and potentate in Ruth’s little chamber. Nothing 
could have been better devised for giving her an interest in 
the invalid. The very dependence of one so helpless upon 
her care inclined her heart towards her. She thought she 
perceived a slight improvement in the symptoms during the 
night, and she was a little pleased that this progress should 
have been made while she reigned monarch of the sick- 
room. Yes, certainly there was an improvement. There 
was more consciousness in the look of the eyes, although 
the whole countenance still retained its painful traces of 

ii 4 


Thurstan and Faith Benson 

acute suffering, manifested in an anxious, startled, uneasy 
aspect. It was broad morning light, though barely five 
o’clock, when Miss Benson caught the sight of Buth’s lips 
moving, as if in speech. Miss Benson stooped down to listen. 

“ Who are you ? ” asked Ruth, in the faintest of whispers. 

“ Miss Benson — Mr. Benson’s sister,” she replied. 

The words conveyed no knowledge to Ruth; on the 
contrary, weak as a babe in mind and body as she was, her 
lips began to quiver, and her eyes to show a terror similar to 
that of any little child who wakens in the presence of a 
stranger, and sees no dear, familiar face of mother or nurse 
to reassure its trembling heart. 

Miss Benson took her hand in hers, and began to stroke 
it caressingly. 

“ Don’t be afraid, dear ; I’m a friend come to take care 
of you. Would you like some tea now, my love ? ” 

The very utterance of these gentle words was unlocking 
Miss Benson’s heart. Her brother was surprised to see her 
so full of interest when he came to inquire later on in the 
morning. It required Mrs. Hughes’s persuasions, as well as 
his own, to induce her to go to bed for an hour or two after 
breakfast ; and, before she went, she made them promise 
that she should be called when the doctor came. He did 
not come until late in the afternoon. The invalid was 
rallying fast, though rallying to a consciousness of sorrow, 
as was evinced by the tears which came slowly rolling down 
her pale sad cheeks — tears which she had not the power to 
wipe away. 

Mr. Benson had remained in the house all day to hear 
the doctor’s opinion ; and, now that he was relieved from the 
charge of Ruth by his sister’s presence, he had the more 
time to dwell upon the circumstances of her case — so far as 
they were known to him. He remembered his first sight of 
her; her lithe figure swaying to and fro as she balanced 
herself on the slippery stones, half smiling at her owq 
dilemma, with a bright, happy fight in the eyes, that seemed 
like a reflection from the glancing waters sparkling below. 

XI 5 


Ruth 

Then he recalled the changed, affrighted look of those eyes as 
they met his, after the child’s rebuff of her advances ; how 
that little incident filled up the tale at which Mrs. Hughes 
had hinted, in a kind of sorrowful way, as if loath (as a 
Christian should be) to believe evil. Then that fearful 
evening, when he had only just saved her from committing 
suicide, and that nightmare sleep ! And now — lost, forsaken, 
and but just delivered from the jaws of death, she lay 
dependent for everything on his sister and him — utter 
strangers a few weeks ago. Where was her lover ? Could 
he be easy and happy ? Could he grow into perfect health, 
with these great sins pressing on his conscience with a 
strong and hard pain ? Or had he a conscience ? ” 

Into whole labyrinths of social ethics Mr. Benson’s 
thoughts wandered, when his sister entered suddenly and 
abruptly. 

“ What does the doctor say ? Is she better ? ** 

“ Oh, yes ! she’s better,” answered Miss Benson, sharp 
and short. Her brother looked at her in dismay. She 
bumped down into a chair in a cross, disconcerted manner. 
They were both silent for a few minutes, only Miss Benson 
whistled and clucked alternately. 

“ What is the matter, Faith ? You say she is better.” 

“ Why, Thurstan, there is something so shocking the 
matter, that I cannot tell you.” 

Mr. Benson changed colour with affright. All things 
possible and impossible crossed his mind but the right one. 
I said, “ all things possible ” ; I made a mistake. He never 
believed Ruth to be more guilty than she seemed. 

“ Faith, I wish you would tell me, and not bewilder me 
with those noises of yours,” said he nervously. 

“ I beg your pardon ; but something so shocking has just 
been discovered — I don’t know how to word it — she will 
have a child. The doctor says so.” 

She was allowed to make noises unnoticed for a few 
minutes. Her brother did not speak. At last she wanted 
his sympathy. 

116 


Thurstan and Faith Benson 

“ Isn’t it shocking, Thurstan ? You might have knocked 
me down with a straw when he told me.” 

“ Does she know ? ” 

“ Yes ; and I am not sure that that isn’t the worst part 
of all.” 

“ How ? — what do you mean ? ” 

“ Oh, I was just beginning to have a good opinion of her ; 
but I’m afraid she is very depraved. After the doctor was 
gone, she pulled the bed-curtain aside, and looked as if she 
wanted to speak to me. (I can’t think how she heard, for 
we were close to the window, and spoke very low.) Well, I 
went to her, though I really had taken quite a turn against 
her. And she whispered, quite eagerly, ‘ Did he say I should 
have a baby ? ’ Of course I could not keep it from her ; but 
I thought it my duty to look as cold and severe as I could. 
She did not seem to understand how it ought to be viewed, 
but took it just as if she had a right to have a baby. She 
said, ‘ Oh, my God, I thank Thee ! Oh, I will be so good ! ’ 
I had no patience with her then, so I left the room.” 

“ Who is with her ? ” 

“ Mrs. Hughes. She is not seeing the thing in a moral 
light, as I should have expected.” 

Mr. Benson was silent again. After some time he 
began — 

“ Faith, I don’t see this affair quite as you do. I believe 
I am right.” 

“ You surprise me, brother ! I don’t understand you.” 

“ Wait awhile ! I want to make my feelings very clear 
to you, but I don’t know where to begin, or how to express 
myself.” 

“ It is, indeed, an extraordinary subject for us to have to 
talk about ; but, if once I get clear of this girl, I’ll wash my 
hands of all such cases again.” 

Her brother was not attending to her ; he was reducing 
his own ideas to form. 

“ Faith, do you know I rejoice in this child s advent ? 

“ May God forgive you, Thurstan !— if you know what 

117 


Ruth 


you are saying. But, surely, it is a temptation, dear 
Thurstan.” 

“ I do not think it is a delusion. The sin appears to me 
to be quite distinct from its consequences.” 

“ Sophistry — and a temptation,” said Miss Benson 
decidedly. 

“ No, it is not,” said her brother, with equal decision. 
“ In the eye of God, she is exactly the same as if the life she 
has led had left no trace behind. We knew her errors before, 
Faith.” 

“ Yes, but not this disgrace — this badge of her shame ! ” 

“ Faith, Faith ! let me beg of you not to speak so of the 
little innocent babe, who may be God’s messenger to lead her 
back to Him. Think again of her first words — the burst of 
nature from her heart ! Did she not turn to God, and enter 
into a covenant with Him — ‘ I will be so good ’ ? Why, it 
draws her out of herself ! If her life has hitherto been self- 
seeking and wickedly thoughtless, here is the very instrument 
to make her forget herself, and be thoughtful for another. 
Teach her (and God will teach her, if man does not come 
between) to reverence her child ; and this reverence will 
shut out sin, — will be purification." 

He was very much excited ; he was even surprised at his 
own excitement ; but his thoughts and meditations through 
the long afternoon had prepared his mind for this manner of 
viewing the subject. 

“ These are quite new ideas to me,” said Miss Benson 
coldly. “ I think you, Thurstan, are the first person I ever 
heard rejoicing over the birth of an illegitimate child. It 
appears to me, I must own, rather questionable morality.” 

“ I do not rejoice. I have been all this afternoon mourn- 
ing over the sin which has blighted this young creature ; I 
have been dreading lest, as she recovered consciousness, 
there should be a return of her despair. I have been 
thinking of every holy word, every promise to the penitent — 
of the tenderness which led the Magdalen aright. I have 
been feeling, severely and reproachfully, the timidity which 

1 18 


Thurstan and Faith Benson 

has hitherto made me blink all encounter with evils of this 
particular kind. 0 Faith ! once for all, do not accuse me of 
questionable morality, when I am trying more than ever 
I did in my life to act as my blessed Lord would have 
done.” 

He was very much agitated. His sister hesitated, and 
then she spoke more softly than before — 

“But, Thurstan, everything might have been done to 
‘lead her right’ (as you call it), without this child, this 
miserable offspring of sin.” 

“ The world has, indeed, made such children miserable, 
innocent as they are ; but I doubt if this be according to the 
will of God, unless it be His punishment for the parents’ 
guilt ; and even then the world’s way of treatment is too apt 
to harden the mother’s natural love into something like 
hatred. Shame, and the terror of friends’ displeasure, turn 
her mad — defile her holiest instincts ; and, as for the fathers 
— God forgive them ! I cannot — at least, not just now.” 

Miss Benson thought on what her brother said. At 
length she asked, “ Thurstan (remember I’m not convinced), 
how would you have this girl treated according to your 
theory ? ” 

“ It will require some time, and much Christian love, to 
find out the best way. I know I’m not very wise ; but the 

way I think it would be right to act in, would be this ” 

He thought for some time before he spoke, and then said — 

“ She has incurred a responsibility — that we both acknow- 
ledge. She is about to become a mother, and have the 
direction and guidance of a little tender life. I fancy such a 
responsibility must be serious and solemn enough, without 
making it into a heavy and oppressive burden, so that human 
nature recoils from bearing it. While we do all we can to 
strengthen her sense of responsibility, I would likewise do all 
we can to make her feel that it is responsibility for what may 
become a blessing.” 

“ Whether the children are legitimate or illegitimate ? ” 
asked Miss Benson dryly. 

119 


Ruth 

“ Yes ! ” said her brother firmly. “ The more I think, the 
more I believe I am right. No one,” said he, blushing faintly 
as he spoke, “ can have a greater recoil from profligacy than 
I have. You yourself have not greater sorrow over this 
young creature’s sin than I have : the difference is this, you 
confuse the consequences with the sin.” 

“ I don’t understand metaphysics.” 

“ I am not aware that I am talking metaphysics. I can 
imagine that if the present occasion be taken rightly, and 
used well, all that is good in her may be raised to a height 
unmeasured but by God ; while all that is evil and dark may, 
by His blessing, fade and disappear in the pure light of her 
child’s presence. — Oh, Father ! listen to my prayer, that her 
redemption may date from this time. Help us to speak to 
her in the loving spirit of thy Holy Son ! ” 

The tears were full in his eyes ; he almost trembled in 
his earnestness. He was faint with the strong power of his 
own conviction, and with his inability to move his sister. 
But she was shaken. She sat very still for a quarter of an 
hour or more while he leaned back, exhausted by his own 
feelings. 

“ The poor child ! ” said she at length — “ the poor, poor 
child ! what it will have to struggle through and endure ! 
Do you remember Thomas Wilkins, and the way he threw 
the registry of his birth and baptism back in your face? 
Why, he would not have the situation ; he went to sea, and 
was drowned, rather than present the record of his shame.” 

“ I do remember it all. It has often haunted me. She 
must strengthen her child to look to God, rather than to 
man’s opinion. It will be the discipline, the penance, she 
has incurred. She must teach it to be (humanly speaking) 
self-dependent.” 

“ But after all,” said Miss Benson (for she had known 
and esteemed poor Thomas Wilkins, and had mourned over 
his untimely death, and the recollection thereof softened her) 
— “ after all, it might be concealed. The very child need 
never know its illegitimacy.” 


120 


Thurstan and Faith Benson 

“ How ? ” asked her brother. 

“ Why — we know so little about her yet ; but in that 
letter, it said she had no friends now, could she not go into 
quite a fresh place, and be passed off as a widow ? ” 

Ah, tempter ! unconscious tempter ! Here was a way of 
evading the trials for the poor little unborn child, of which 
Mr. Benson had never thought. It was the decision — the 
pivot, on which the fate of years moved ; and he turned it 
the wrong way. But it was not for his own sake. For him- 
self, he was brave enough to tell the truth ; for the little 
helpless baby, about to enter a cruel, biting world, he was 
tempted to evade the difficulty. He forgot what he had just 
said, of the discipline and the penance to the mother consist- 
ing in strengthening her child to meet, trustfully and bravely, 
the consequences of her own weakness. He remembered 
more clearly the wild fierceness, the Cain-like look, of 
Thomas Wilkins, as the obnoxious word in the baptismal 
registry told him that he must go forth branded into the 
world, with his hand against every man’s, and every man’s 
against him. 

“ How could it be managed, Faith ? ” 

“ Nay, I must know much more, which she alone can tell 
us, before I can see how it is to be managed. It is certainly 
the best plan.” 

“ Perhaps it is,” said her brother thoughtfully, but no 
longer clearly or decidedly ; and so the conversation 
dropped. 

Ruth moved the bed-curtain aside, in her soft manner, 
when Miss Benson re-entered the room ; she did not speak, 
but she looked at her as if she wished her to come near. 
Miss Benson went and stood by her. Ruth took her hand 
in hers and kissed it; as if fatigued even by this slight 
movement, she fell asleep. 

Miss Benson took up her work, and thought over her 
brother’s speeches. She was not convinced, but she was 
softened and bewildered. 


I 2 1 


Ruth 


CHAPTER XII 

LOSING SIGHT OF THE WELSH MOUNTAINS 

Miss Benson continued in an undecided state of mind for 
the two next days ; but on the third, as they sat at breakfast, 
she began to speak to her brother. 

“ That young creature’s name is Ruth Hilton.” 

“ Indeed ! how did you find it out ? ” 

“ From herself, of course. She is much stronger. I slept 
with her last night, and I was aware she was awake long 
before I liked to speak, but at last I began. I don’t know 
what I said, or how it went on, but I think it was a little 
relief to her to tell me something about herself. She sobbed 
and cried herself to sleep ; I think she is asleep now.” 

“ Tell me what she said about herself.” 

“ Oh, it was really very little ; it was evidently a most 
painful subject. She is an orphan, without brother or sister, 
and with a guardian, whom, I think she said, she never saw 
but once. He apprenticed her (after her father’s death) to a 
dressmaker. This Mr. Bellingham got acquainted with her, 
and they used to meet on Sunday afternoons. One day they 
were late, lingering on the road, when the dressmaker came 
up by accident. She seems to have been very angry, and 
not unnaturally so. The girl took fright at her threats, and 
the lover persuaded her to go off with him to London, there 
and then. Last May, I think it was. That’s all.” 

“ Did she express any sorrow for her error ? ” 

“No, not in words ; but her voice was broken with sobs, 
though she tried to make it steady. After a while she began 
to talk about her baby, but shyly, and with much hesitation. 
She asked me, how much I thought she could earn as a 
dressmaker, by working very, very hard ; and that brought 
us round to her child. I thought of what you had said, 

122 


Losing Sight of the Welsh Mountains 

Thurstan, and I tried to speak to her as yon wished me. I 
am not sure if it was right ; I . am doubtful in my own mind 
still.” 

“ Don’t be doubtful, Faith ! Dear Faith, I thank you for 
your kindness.” 

“ There is really nothing to thank me for. It is almost 
impossible to help being kind to her ; there is something so 
meek and gentle about her, so patient, and so grateful ! ” 

“ What does she think of doing ? ” 

“ Poor child ! she thinks of taking lodgings — very cheap 
ones, she says ; there she means to work night and day to 
earn enough for her child. For she said to me, with such 
pretty earnestness, * It must never know want, whatever I do. 
I have deserved suffering, but it will be such a little innocent 
darling ! ’ Her utmost earnings would not be more than 
seven or eight shillings a week, I’m afraid ; and then she is 
so young and so pretty ! ” 

“ There is that fifty pounds Mrs. Morgan brought me, and 
those two letters. Does she know about them yet ? ” 

“ No ; I did not like to tell her till she is a little stronger. 
Oh, Thurstan ! I wish there was not this prospect of a child. 
I cannot help it. I do — I could see a way in which we might 
help her, if it were not for that.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“ Oh, it’s no use thinking of it, as it is ! Or else we might 
have taken her home with us, and kept her till she had got a 
little dressmaking in the congregation, but for this meddle- 
some child; that spoils everything. You must let me 
grumble to you, Thurstan. I was very good to her, and 
spoke as tenderly and respectfully of the little thing as if it 
were the Queen’s, and born in lawful matrimony.” 

“ That’s right, my dear Faith ! Grumble away to me, if 
you like. I’ll forgive you, for the kind thought of taking her 
home with us. But do you think her situation is an insuper- 
able objection ? ” 

“ Why, Thurstan !— it’s so insuperable, it puts it quite out 
of the question.” 


123 


Ruth 

“ How ? — that’s only repeating yonr objection. Why is 
it out of the question ? ” 

“ If there had been no child coming, we might have called 
her by her right name — Miss Hilton ; that’s one thing. 
Then, another is, the baby in our house. Why, Sally would 
go distraught ! ” 

“ Never mind Sally. If she were an orphan relation of 
our own, left widowed,” said he, pausing as if in doubt. 
“ You yourself suggested she should be considered as a 
widow, for the child’s sake. I’m only taking up your ideas, 
dear Faith. I respect you for thinking of taking her home ; 
it is just what we ought to do. Thank you for reminding me 
of my duty.” 

“Nay, it was only a passing thought. Think of Mr. 
Bradshaw. Oh ! I tremble at the thought of his grim dis- 
pleasure.” 

“We must think of a higher than Mr. Bradshaw. I own 
I should be a very coward if he knew. He is so severe, so 
inflexible. But after all he sees so little of us ; he never 
comes to tea, you know, but is always engaged when Mrs. 
Bradshaw comes. I don’t think he knows of what our 
household consists.” 

“ Not know Sally ? Oh yes, but he does. He asked 
Mrs. Bradshaw one day if she knew what wages we gave her, 
and said we might get a far more efficient and younger 
servant for the money. And, speaking about money, think 
what our expenses would be if we took her home for the 
next six months.” 

That consideration was a puzzling one ; and both sat 
silent and perplexed for a time. Miss Benson was as 
sorrowful as her brother, for she was becoming as anxious 
as he was to find it possible that her plan could be 
carried out. 

“There’s the fifty pounds,” said he, with a sigh of 
reluctance at the idea. 

“ Yes, there’s the fifty pounds,” echoed his sister, with 
the same sadness in her tone. “ I suppose it is hers.” 

124 


Losing Sight of the Welsh Mountains 

“ I suppose it is ; and, being so, we must not think who 
gave it to her. It will defray her expenses. I am very 
sorry, but I think we must take it.” 

“ It would never do to apply to him under the present 
circumstances,” said Miss Benson, in a hesitating manner. 

“ No, that we won’t,” said her brother decisively. “ If 
she consents to let us take care of her, we will never let her 
stoop to request anything from him, even for his child. 
She can live on bread and water — we can all live on bread 
and water — rather than that.” 

“ Then I will speak to her and propose the plan. Oh, 
Thurstan ! from a child you could persuade me to anything ! 
I hope I am doing right. However much I oppose you at 
first, I am sure to yield soon ; almost in proportion to my 
violence at first. I think I am very weak.” 

“No, not in this instance. We are both right : I, in the 
way in which the child ought to be viewed ; you, dear good 
Faith, for thinking of taking her home with us. God bless 
you, dear, for it ! ” 

When Ruth began to sit up (and the strange, new, 
delicious prospect of becoming a mother seemed to give her 
some mysterious source of strength, so that her recovery was 
rapid and swift from that time), Miss Benson brought her 
the letters and the bank-note. 

“ Do you recollect receiving this letter, Ruth ? ” asked 
she, with grave gentleness. Ruth changed colour, and took 
it and read it again without making any reply to Miss 
Benson. Then she sighed, and thought a while ; and then 
took up and read the second note — the note which Mrs. 
Bellingham had sent to Mr. Benson in answer to his. After 
that she took up the bank-note and turned it round and 
round, but not as if she saw it. Miss Benson noticed that 
her fingers trembled sadly, and that her lips were quivering 
for some time before she spoke. 

“ If you please, Miss Benson, I should like to return this 
money.” 

“ Why, my dear ? ” 


125 


Ruth 

“ I have a strong feeling against taking it. While he,” 
said she, deeply blushing, and letting her large white lids 
drop down and veil her eyes, “ loved me, he gave me many 
things — my watch — oh, many things ; and I took them from 
him gladly and thankfully, because he loved me — for I 
would have given him anything — and I thought of them as 
signs of love. But this money pains my heart. He has 
left off loving me, and has gone away. This money seems — 
oh, Miss Benson — it seems as if he could comfort me, for 
being forsaken, by money.” And at that word the tears, so 
long kept back and repressed, forced their way like rain. 

She checked herself, however, in the violence of her 
emotion, for she thought of her child. 

“ So, will you take the trouble of sending it back to Mrs. 
Bellingham ? ” 

“ That I will, my dear. I am glad of it, that I am ! 
They don’t deserve to have the power of giving : they don’t 
deserve that you should take it.” 

Miss Benson went and enclosed it up there and then ; 
simply writing these words in the envelope, “ From Ruth 
Hilton.” 

“ And now we wash our hands of these Bellinghams,” 
said she triumphantly. But Ruth looked tearful and sad; 
not about returning the note, but from the conviction that 
the reason she had given for the ground of her determination 
was true — he no longer loved her. 

To cheer her, Miss Benson began to speak of the future. 
Miss Benson was one of those people who, the more she 
spoke of a plan in its details, and the more she realised it in 
her own mind, the more firmly she became a partisan of 
the project. Thus she grew warm and happy in the idea 
of taking Ruth home; but Ruth remained depressed and 
languid under the conviction that he no longer loved her. 
No home, no future, but the thought of her child, could wean 
her from this sorrow. Miss Benson was a little piqued ; and 
this pique showed itself afterwards in talking to her brother 
of the morning’s proceedings in the sick chamber. 

126 


Losing Sight of the Welsh Mountains 

“ I admired her at the time for sending away her fifty 
pounds so proudly ; but I think she has a cold heart : she 
hardly thanked me at all for my proposal of taking her 
home with us.” 

i “ Her thoughts are full of other things just now ; and 
people have such different ways of showing feeling : some 
by silence, some by words. At any rate, it is unwise to 
expect gratitude.” 

; “ What do you expect — not indifference or ingratitude ? ” 

“It is better not to expect or calculate consequences. 
The longer I live, the more fully I see that. Let us try 
simply to do right actions, without thinking of the feelings 
they are to call out in others. We know that no holy or 
self-denying effort can fall to the ground vain and useless ; 
but the sweep of eternity is large, and God alone knows 
when the effect is to be produced. We are trying to do 
right now, and to feel right ; don’t let us perplex ourselves 
with endeavouring to map out how she should feel, or how 
she should show her feelings.” 

“ That’s all very fine, and I dare say very true,” said 
Miss Benson, a little chagrined. “ But * a bird in the hand 
is worth two in the bush ; ’ and I would rather have had one 
good, hearty, ‘ Thank you,’ now, for all I have been planning 
to do for her, than the grand effects you promise me in the 
1 sweep of eternity.’ Don’t be grave and sorrowful, Thurstan, 
or I’ll go out of the room. I can stand Sally’s scoldings, 
but I can’t bear your look of quiet depression whenever I 
am a little hasty or impatient. I had rather you would give 
me a good box on the ear.” 

“ And I would often rather you would speak, if ever so 
hastily, instead of whistling. So, if I box your ears when I 
am vexed with you, will you promise to scold me when you 
are put out of the way, instead of whistling ? ” 

“ Very well ! that’s a bargain. You box, and I scold. 
But, seriously, I began to calculate our money when she so 
cavalierly sent off the fifty-pound note (I can’t help admir- 
ing her for it I), and I am very much afraid we shall not 

127 


Ruth 

have enough to pay the doctor’s bill, and take her home 
with us.” 

“ She must go inside the coach, whatever we do,” said 
Mr. Benson decidedly. “Who’s there? Come in! Oh! 
Mrs. Hughes ! Sit down.” 

“ Indeed, sir, and I cannot stay ; but the young lady has 
just made me find up her watch for her, and asked me to 
get it sold to pay the doctor, and the little things she has 
had since she came ; and please, sir, indeed I don’t know 
where to sell it nearer than Caernarvon.” 

“ That is good of her,’’ said Miss Benson, her sense of 
justice satisfied ; and, remembering the way in which Ruth 
had spoken of the watch, she felt what a sacrifice it must 
have been to resolve to part with it. 

“ And her goodness just helps us out of our dilemma,” 
said her brother ; who was unaware of the feelings with 
which Ruth regarded her watch, or, perhaps, he might have 
parted with his Facciolati. 

Mrs. Hughes patiently awaited their leisure for answer- 
ing her practical question. Where could the watch be sold ? 
Suddenly her face brightened. 

“ Mr. Jones, the doctor, is just going to be married, 
perhaps he would like nothing better than to give this pretty 
watch to his bride ; indeed, and I think it’s very likely ; and 
he’ll pay money for it as well as letting alone his bill. I’ll 
ask him, sir, at any rate.” 

Mr. Jones was only too glad to obtain possession of so 
elegant a ’present at so cheap a rate. He even, as Mrs. 
Hughes had foretold, “ paid money for it ; ” more than was 
required to defray the expenses of Ruth’s accommodation, 
as most of the articles of food she had were paid for at the 
time by Mr. or Miss Benson, but they strictly forbade Mrs. 
Hughes to tell Ruth of this. 

“ Would you object to my buying you a black gown ? ” 
said Miss Benson to her, the day after the sale of the watch. 
She hesitated a little, and then went on — 

“ My brother and I think it would be better to call you 
128 


Losing Sight of the Welsh Mountains 

— as if in fact yon were — a widow. It will save much 

awkwardness, and it will spare your child much ” 

mortification, she was going to have added ; but that word 
did not exactly do. But, at the mention of her child, Ruth 
started, and turned ruby-red ; as she always did when 
allusion was made to it. 

“ Oh, yes ! certainly. Thank you much for thinking of 
it. Indeed,” said she, very low, as if to herself, “ I don’t 
know how to thank you for all you are doing ; but I do love 
you, and will pray for you, if I may.” 

“ If you may, Ruth ! ” repeated Miss Benson, in a tone 
of surprise. 

“ Yes, if I may. If you will let me pray for you.” 

“ Certainly, my dear. My dear Ruth, you don’t know 
how often I sin ; I do so wrong, with my few temptations. 
We are both of us great sinners in the eyes of the Most Holy ; 
let us pray for each other. Don’t speak so again, my dear ; 
at least, not to me.” 

Miss Benson was actually crying. She had always 
looked upon herself as so inferior to her brother in real 
goodness, had seen such heights above her, that she was 
distressed by Ruth’s humility. After a short time she 
resumed the subject. 

“ Then I may get you a black gown ? — and we may call 
you Mrs. Hilton ? ” 

“ No ; not Mrs. Hilton ! ” said Ruth hastily. 

Miss Benson, who had hitherto kept her eyes averted 
from Ruth’s face from a motive of kindly delicacy, now 
looked at her with surprise. 

“ Why not ? ” asked she. 

“ It was my mother’s name,” said Ruth, in a low voice. 
“ I had better not be called by it.” 

“ Then let us call you by my mother’s name,” said Miss 

Benson tenderly. “ She would have But I’ll talk to 

you about my mother some other time. Let me call you 
Mrs. Denbigh. It will do very well, too. People will think 
you are a distant relation.” 

1S9 


K 


Ruth 

When she told Mr. Benson of this choice of name, he 
was rather sorry ; it was like his sister’s impulsive kindness 
— impulsive in everything — and. he could imagine how 
Ruth’s humility had touched her. He was sorry, but he 
said nothing. 

And now the letter was written home, announcing the 
probable arrival of the brother and sister on a certain day, 
“ with a distant relation, early left a widow,” as Miss 
Benson expressed it. She desired the spare room might be 
prepared, and made every provision she could think of for 
Ruth’s comfort ; for Ruth still remained feeble and weak. 

When the black gown, at which she had stitched away 
incessantly, was finished — when nothing remained, but to 
rest for the next day’s journey — Ruth could not sit still. 
She wandered from window to window, learning off each 
rock and tree by heart. Each had its tale, which it was 
agony to remember ; but which it would have beOn worse 
agony to forget. The sound of running waters she heard 
that quiet evening was in her ears as she lay on her death- 
bed ; so well had she learnt their tune. 

And now all was over. She had driven in to Llan-dhu, 
sitting by her lover’s side, living in the bright present, 
and strangely forgetful of the past or the future; she had 
dreamed out her dream, and she had awakened from the 
vision of love. She walked slowly and sadly down the long 
hill, her tears fast falling, but as quickly wiped away ; while 
she strove to make steady the low quivering voice which 
was often called upon to answer some remark of Miss 
Benson’s. 

They had to wait for the coach. Ruth buried her face 
in some flowers which Mrs. Hughes had given her on part- 
ing ; and was startled when the mail drew up with a sudden 
pull, which almost threw the horses on their haunches. 
She was placed inside, and the coach had set off again, 
before she was fully aware that Mr. and Miss Benson were 
travelling on the outside; but it was a relief to feel she 
might now cry without exciting their notice. The shadow 

130 


Losing Sight of the Welsh Mounta 

of a heavy thunder-cloud was on the valley, but the 1 
upland village-church (that showed the spot in whicl 
much of her life was passed) stood out clear in the sunsh 
She grudged the tears that blinded her as she gazed. T1 
was one passenger, who tried after a while to comfort he: 

“ Don’t cry, miss,” said the kind-hearted won 
“ You’re parting from friends, maybe ? Well, that’s 
enough ; but, when you come to my age, you’ll think n< 
of it. Why, I’ve three sons, and they’re soldiers and sail< 
all of them — here, there, and everywhere. One is in Ameri 
beyond the seas ; another is in China, making tea ; a 
another is at Gibraltar, three miles from Spain ; and } 
you see, I can laugh and eat and enjoy myself. I son 
times think I’ll try and fret a bit, just to make myself 
better figure : but, Lord ! it’s no use, it’s against my natur 
so I laugh and grow fat again. I’d be quite thankful for 
fit of anxiety as would make me feel easy in my clothe 
which them manty-makers will make so tight I’m fair 
throttled.” 

Euth durst cry no more ; it was no relief, now she ws 
watched and noticed, and plied with a sandwich or a ginge 
bread each time she looked sad. She lay back with he 
eyes shut, as if asleep, and went on, and on, the sun neve 
seeming to move from his high place in the sky, nor th 
bright hot day to show the least sign of waning. Ever 
now and then Miss Benson scrambled down, and mad 
kind inquiries of the pale, weary Euth ; and once the; 
changed coaches, and the fat old lady left her with a heart} 
shake of the hand. 

“ It is not much further now,” said Miss Benson 
apologetically, to Euth. “ See ! we are losing sight of the 
Welsh mountains. We have about eighteen miles of plain, 
and then we come to the moors and the rising ground, 
amidst which Eccleston lies. I wish we were there, for my 
brother is sadly tired.” 

The first wonder in Euth’s mind was, why then, if Mr. 
Benson was so tired, did they not stop where they were for 

* 3 * 


Ruth 

night ; for she knew little of the expenses of a night at 

inn. The next thought was, to beg that Mr. Benson 
uld take her place inside the coach, and allow her to 
junt up by Miss Benson. She proposed this, and Miss 
nson was evidently pleased. 

“ Well, if you’re not tired, it would be a rest and a 
ange for him, to be sure ; and if you were by me I could 
ow you the first sight of Eccleston, if we reach there 
fore it is quite dark.” 

So Mr. Benson got down, and changed places with Buth. 

She hardly yet understood the numerous small economies 
hich he and his sister had to practise — the little daily self- 
mials — all endured so cheerfully and simply, that they 
id almost ceased to require an effort, and it had become 
atural to them to think of others before themselves. Buth 
ad not understood that it was for economy that their places 
ad been taken on the outside of the coach, while hers, as 
n invalid requiring rest, was to be the inside ; and that the 
liscuits which supplied the place of a dinner were, in fact, 
hosen because the difference in price between the two 
vould go a little way towards fulfilling their plan for receiv- 
ng her as an inmate. Her thought about money had been 
aitherto a child’s thought ; the subject had never touched 
ler; but afterwards, when she had lived a little while with 
;he Bensons, her eyes were opened, and she remembered 
their simple kindness on the journey, and treasured the 
remembrance of it in her heart. 

A low grey cloud was the first sign of Eccleston ; it was 
the smoke of the town hanging over the plain. Beyond the 
place where she was expected to believe it existed, arose 
round, waving uplands ; nothing to the fine outlines of the 
Welsh mountains, but still going up nearer to heaven than 
the rest of the flat world into which she had now entered. 
Bumbling stones, lamp-posts, a sudden stop, and they were 
in the town of Eccleston ; and a strange, uncouth voice, on 
the dark side of the coach, was heard to say — 

“ Be ye there, measter? ” 

132 


The Dissenting Minister’s Househc 

“ Yes, yes ! ” said Miss Benson quickly. “ Did Sa 
send you, Ben ? Get the ostler’s lantern, and look out 
luggage.” 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE DISSENTING MINISTER’S HOUSEHOLD 

Miss Benson had resumed every morsel of the briskne 
which she had rather lost in the middle of the day ; her fo' 
was on her native stones, and a very rough set they wer 
and she was near her home and among known peopl 
Even Mr. Benson spoke very cheerfully to Ben, and mac 
many inquiries of him respecting people whose names wei 
strange to Ruth. She was cold, and utterly weary. Sh 
took Miss Benson’s offered arm, and could hardly drag hei 
self as far as the little quiet street in which Mr. Benson’? 
house was situated. The street was so quiet that their foot: 
steps sounded like a loud disturbance, and announced thiii 
approach as effectually as the “ trumpet’s lordly blare ” die 
the coming of Abdallah. A door flew open, and a lighted 
passage stood before them. As soon as they had entered, 
a stout elderly servant emerged from behind the door, her 
face radiant with welcome. 

“ Eh, bless ye ! are ye back again ? I thought I should 
ha’ been lost without ye.” 

She gave Mr. Benson a hearty shake of the hand, and 
kissed Miss Benson warmly ; then, turning to Ruth, she said, 
in a loud whisper — 

“ Who’s yon ? ” 

Mr. Benson was silent, and walked a step onwards. Miss 
Benson said boldly out — 

“ The lady I named in my note, Sally — Mrs. Denbigh, a 
distant relation.” 

“ Ay, but you said hoo was a widow. Is this chit a 
widow ? ” 


133 


Ruth 

“ Yes, this is Mrs. Denbigh,” answered Miss Benson. 

“ If I’d been her mother, I’d ha’ given her a lollypop 
itead on a husband. Hoo looks fitter for it.” 

“ Hush ! Sally, Sally ! Look, there’s your master trying 
move that heavy box.” Miss Benson calculated well 
ten she called Sally’s attention to her master ; for it was 
ilieved by every one, and by Sally herself, that his deform- 
was owing to a fall he had had when he was scarcely more 
an a baby, and intrusted to her care — a little nurse-girl, as 
ie then was, not many years older than himself. For years 
ie poor girl had cried herself to sleep on her pallet bed, 
loaning over the blight her carelessness had brought upon 
er darling; nor was this self-reproach diminished by the 
Drgiveness of the gentle mother, from whom Thurstan 
3enson derived so much of his character. The way in 
vhich comfort stole into Sally’s heart was in the gradually- 
ormed resolution that she would never leave him nor forsake 
him, but serve him faithfully all her life long ; and she had 
kept to her word. She loved Miss Benson, but she almost 
vlurshipped the brother. The reverence for him was in her 
heart, however, and did not always show itself in her 
manners. But if she scolded him herself, she allowed no 
one else that privilege. If Miss Benson differed from her 
brother, and ventured to think his sayings or doings might 
have been improved, Sally came down upon her like a 
thunder-clap. 

“ My goodness gracious, Master Thurstan, when will you 
learn to leave off meddling with other folks’ business ? Here, 
Ben ! help me up with these trunks.” 

The little narrow passage was cleared, and Miss Benson 
took Buth into the sitting-room. There were only two 
sitting-rooms on the ground-floor, one behind the other. 
Out of the back room the kitchen opened, and for this reason 
the back parlour was used as the family sitting-room; or 
else, being, with its garden aspect, so much the pleasanter of 
the two, both Sally and Miss Benson would have appropri- 
ated it for Mr. Benson’s study. As it was, the front room, 

*34 


The Dissenting Minister’s Househoh 

which looked to the street, was his room ; and many 
person coming for help — help of which giving money wa 
the lowest kind — was admitted, and let forth by Mr. Benson 
unknown to any one else in the house. To make amends fo 
his having the least cheerful room on the ground-floor, ht 
had the garden bedroom, while his sister slept over his study 
There were two more rooms again over these, with sloping 
ceilings, though otherwise large and airy. The attic looking 
into the garden was the spare bedroom ; while the front 
belonged to Sally. There was no room over the kitchen, 
which was, in fact, a supplement to the house. The sitting- 
room was called by the pretty, old-fashioned name of the 
parlour, while Mr. Benson’s room .was styled the study. 

The curtains were drawn in the parlour; there was a 
bright fire and a clean hearth ; indeed, exquisite cleanliness 
seemed the very spirit of the household, for the door which 
was open to the kitchen showed a delicately- white and spot- 
less floor, and bright glittering tins, on which the ruddy fire- 
light danced. 

From the place in which Ruth sat she could see all Sally’ ?, 
movements ; and though she was not conscious of close or 
minute observation at the time (her body being weary, and 
her mind full of other thoughts), yet it was curious how 
faithfully that scene remained depicted on her memory in 
after years. The warm light filled every comer of the 
kitchen, in strong distinction to the faint illumination of the 
one candle in the parlour, whose radiance was confined, and 
was lost in the dead folds of window- curtains, carpet, and 
furniture. The square, stout, bustling figure, neat and clean 
in every respect, but dressed in the peculiar, old-fashioned 
costume of the county, namely, a dark- striped linsey-woolsey 
petticoat, made very short, displaying sturdy legs in woollen 
stockings beneath ; a loose kind of jacket, called there a 
“bedgown,” made of pink print; a snow-white apron and 
cap, both of linen, and the latter made in the shape of a 
“ mutch ” ; — these articles completed Sally’s costume, and 
were painted on Ruth’s memory. Whilst Sally was busied 

135 


Ruth 

i preparing tea, Miss Benson took off Ruth’s things ; and 
le latter instinctively felt that Sally, in the midst of her 
aovements, was watching their proceedings. Occasionally 
,he also put in a word in the conversation, and these little 
entences were uttered quite in the tone of an equal, if not 
)f a superior. She had dropped the more formal “ you,” with 
vhich at first she had addressed Miss Benson, and thou’d her 
piietly and habitually. 

All these particulars sank unconsciously into Ruth’s 
nind ; but they did not rise to the surface, and become per- 
ceptible, for a length of time. She was weary and much 
depressed. Even the very kindness that ministered to her 
was overpowering. But over the dark, misty moor a little 
light shone— a beacon; and on that she fixed her eyes, and 
struggled out of her present deep dejection — the little child 
that was coming to her ! 

Mr. Benson was as languid and weary as Ruth, and was 
silent during all this bustle and preparation. His silence 
was more grateful to Ruth than Miss Benson’s many words, 
{although she felt their kindness. After tea, Miss Benson 
took her upstairs to her room. The white dimity bed, and 
the walls, stained green, had something of the colouring and 
purity of effect of a snowdrop ; while the floor, rubbed with 
a mixture that turned it into a rich dark-brown, suggested 
the idea of the garden-mould out of which the snowdrop 
grows. As Miss Benson helped the pale Ruth to undress, 
her voice became less full-toned and hurried; the hush of 
approaching night subdued her into a softened, solemn kind 
of tenderness, and the murmured blessing sounded like 
granted prayer. 

When Miss Benson came downstairs, she found her 
brother reading some letters which had been received during 
his absence. She went and softly shut the door of communi- 
cation between the parlour and the kitchen ; and then, fetch- 
ing a grey worsted stocking which she was knitting, sat down 
near him, her eyes not looking at her work but fixed on the 
fire ; while the eternal rapid click of the knitting-needles 

136 


The Dissenting Minister’s Household 

broke the silence of the room, with a sound as monotonous 
and incessant as the noise of a hand-loom. She expected 
him to speak, but he did not. She enjoyed an examination 
into, and discussion of, her feelings ; it was an interest and 
amusement to her, while he dreaded and avoided all such 
conversation. There were times when his feelings, which 
were always earnest, and sometimes morbid, burst forth, 
and defied control, and overwhelmed him ; when a force was 
upon him compelling him to speak. But he, in general, 
strove to preserve his composure, from a fear of the com- 
pelling pain of such times, and the consequent exhaustion. 
His heart had been very full of Buth all day long, and he 
was afraid of his sister beginning the subject ; so he read on, 
or seemed to do so, though he hardly saw the letter he held 
before him. It was a great relief to him when Sally threw 
open the middle door with a bang, which did not indicate 
either calmness of mind or sweetness of temper. 

“ Is yon young woman going to stay any length o’ time 
with us ? ” asked she of Miss Benson. 

Mr. Benson put his hand gently on his sister’s arm, to 
check her from making any reply, while he said — 

“We cannot exactly tell, Sally. She will remain until 
after her confinement.” 

“ Lord bless us and save us ! — a baby in the house ! 
Nay, then my time’s come, and I’ll pack up and begone. I 
never could abide them things. I’d sooner have rats in the 
house.” 

Sally really did look alarmed. 

“ Why, Sally ! ” said Mr. Benson, smiling, “ I was not 
much more than a baby when you came to take care of me.” 

“Yes, you were, Master Thurstan; you were a fine 
bouncing lad of three year old and better.” 

Then she remembered the change she had wrought in the 
“ fine bouncing lad,” and her eyes filled with tears, which 
she was too proud to wipe away with her apron ; for, as 
she sometimes said to herself, “ she could not abide crying 
before folk.” 


137 


Ruth 

“ Well, it’s no use talking, Sally,” said Miss Benson, too 
anxious to speak to be any longer repressed. “ We’ve pro- 
mised to keep her, and we must do it ; you’ll have none of 
the trouble, Sally, so don’t be afraid.” 

“ Well, I never ! as if I minded trouble ! You might ha’ 
known me better nor that. I’ve scoured master’s room twice 
over, just to make the boards look white, though the carpet 
is to cover them, and now you go and cast up about me 
minding my trouble. If them’s the fashions you’ve learnt in 
Wales, I’m thankful I’ve never been there.” 

Sally looked red, indignant, and really hurt. Mr. 
Benson came in with his musical voice and soft words of 
healing. 

“ Faith knows you don’t care for trouble, Sally ; she is 
only anxious about this poor young woman, who has no 
friends but ourselves. We know there will be more trouble 
in consequence of her coming to stay with us ; and I think, 
though we never spoke about it, that in making our plans we 
reckoned on your kind help, Sally, which has never failed us 
yet when we needed it.” 

“ You’ve twice the sense of your sister, Master Thurstan, 
that you have. Boys always has. It’s truth there will be 
more trouble, and I shall have my share on’t, I reckon. I 
can face it if I’m told out and out, but I cannot abide the 
way some folk has of denying there’s trouble or pain to be 
met ; just as if tbeir saying there was none, would do away 
with it. Some folk treats one like a babby, and I don’t like 
it. I’m not meaning you, Master Thurstan.” 

“No, Sally, you need not say that. I know well enough 
who you mean when you say ‘ some folk.’ However, I admit 
I was wrong in speaking as if you minded trouble, for there 
never was a creature minded it less. But I want you to like 
Mrs. Denbigh,” said Miss Benson. 

“ I dare say I should, if you’d let me alone. I did na like 
her sitting down in master’s chair. Set her up, indeed, in an 
arm-chair wi’ cushions! Wenches in my day were glad 
enough of stools.” 

. *38 


The Dissenting Minister’s Household 

“ She was tired to-night,” said Mr. Benson. “ We are 
all tired ; so if yon have done your work, Sally, come in to 
reading.” 

The three quiet people knelt down side by side, and two 
of them prayed earnestly for “ them that had gone astray.” 
Before ten o’clock, the household were in bed. 

Ruth, sleepless, weary, restless with the oppression of a 
sorrow which she dared not face and contemplate bravely, 
kept awake all the early part of the night. Many a time did 
she rise, and go to the long casement window, and looked 
abroad over the still and quiet town — over the grey stone 
walls, and chimneys, and old high-pointed roofs — on to the 
far-away hilly line of the horizon, lying calm under the bright 
moonshine. It was late in the morning when she woke from 
her long-deferred slumbers ; and when she went downstairs, 
she found Mr. and Miss Benson awaiting her in the parlour. 
That homely, pretty, old-fashioned little room ! How bright 
and still and clean it looked ! The window (all the windows 
at the back of the house were casements) was open, to let in 
the sweet morning air, and streaming eastern sunshine. 
The long jessamine sprays, with their white-scented stars, 
forced themselves almost into the room. The little square 
garden beyond, with grey stone walls all round, was rich and 
mellow in its autumnal colouring, running from deep crimson 
hollyhocks up to amber and gold nasturtiums, and all toned 
down by the clear and delicate air. It was so still, that the 
gossamer- webs, laden with dew, did not tremble or quiver in 
the least; but the sun was drawing to himself the sweet 
incense of many flowers, and the parlour was scented with 
the odours of mignonette and stocks. Miss Benson was 
arranging a bunch of China and damask roses in an old- 
fashioned jar ; they lay, all dewy and fresh, on the white 
breakfast-cloth when Ruth entered. Mr. Benson was reading 
in some large folio. With gentle morning speech they 
greeted her ; but the quiet repose of the scene was instantly 
broken by Sally popping in from the kitchen, and glancing at 
Ruth with sharp reproach. She said — # 

139 


Ruth 

“ I reckon I may bring in breakfast, now ? ” with a strong 
emphasis on the last word. 

“ I am afraid I am very late,” said Ruth. 

“ Oh never mind,” said Mr. Benson gently. “ It was our 
fault for not telling you our breakfast hour. We always 
have prayers at half-past seven ; and for Sally’s sake, we 
never vary from that time ; for she can so arrange her work, 
if she knows the hour of prayers, as to have her mind calm 
and untroubled.” 

“ Ahem ! ” said Miss Benson, rather inclined to “ testify ” 
against the invariable calmness of Sally’s mind at any hour 
of the day; but her brother went on as if he did not 
hear her. 

“ But the breakfast does not signify being delayed a 
little ; and I am sure you were sadly tired with your long 
day yesterday.” 

Sally came slapping in, and put down some withered, 
tough, dry toast, with — 

“ It’s not my doing if it is like leather ” ; but as no one 
appeared to hear her, she withdrew to her kitchen, leaving 
Ruth’s cheeks like crimson at the annoyance she had 
caused. 

All day long, she had that feeling common to those who 
go to stay at a fresh house among comparative strangers : a 
feeling of the necessity that she should become accustomed to 
the new atmosphere in which she was placed, before she 
could move and act freely ; it was, indeed, a purer ether, a 
diviner air, which she was breathing in now, than what she 
had been accustomed to for long months. The gentle, 
blessed mother, who had made her childhood’s home holy 
ground, was in her very nature so far removed from any of 
earth’s stains and temptations, that she seemed truly one 
of those 

“ Who ask not if Thine eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 

Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth.” 

140 


The Dissenting Minister’s Household 

In the Bensons’ house there was the same unconscious- 
ness of individual merit, the same absence of introspection 
and analysis of motive, as there had been in her mother ; 
but it seemed that their lives were pure and good, not merely 
from a lovely and beautiful nature, but from some law, the 
obedience to which was, of itself, harmonious peace, and 
which governed them almost implicitly, and with as little 
questioning on their part, as the glorious stars which haste 
not, rest not, in their eternal obedience. This household 
had many failings : they were but human, and, with all their 
loving desire to bring their lives into harmony with the will 
of God, they often erred and fell short ; but, somehow, the 
very errors and faults of one individual served to call out 
higher excellences in another, and so they reacted upon each 
other, and the result of short discords was exceeding harmony 
and peace. But they had themselves no idea of the real state 
of things ; they did not trouble themselves with marking 
their progress by self-examination ; if Mr. Benson did some- 
times, in hours of sick incapacity for exertion, turn inwards, 
it was to cry aloud with almost morbid despair, “ God be 
merciful to me a sinner ! ” But he strove to leave his life in 
the hands of God, and to forget himself. 

Ruth sat still and quiet through the long first day. She 
was languid and weary from her journey ; she was uncertain 
what help she might offer to give in the household duties, 
and what she might not. And, in her languor and in 
her uncertainty, it was pleasant to watch the new ways of 
the people among whom she was placed. After breakfast, 
Mr. Benson withdrew to his study, Miss Benson took away 
the cups and saucers, and leaving the kitchen-door open, 
talked sometimes to Ruth, sometimes to Sally, while she 
washed them up. Sally had upstairs duties to perform, for 
which Ruth was thankful, as she kept receiving rather angry 
glances for her unpunctuality as long as Sally remained 
downstairs. Miss Benson assisted in the preparation for the 
early dinner, and brought some kidney-beans to shred into a 
basin of bright, pure spring- water, which caught and danpod 

141 


Ruth 

in the sunbeams as she sat near the open casement of the 
parlour, talking to Ruth of things and people which as yet 
the latter did not understand, and could not arrange and 
comprehend. She was like a child who gets a few pieces of 
a dissected map, and is confused until a glimpse of the whole 
unity is shown him. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw were the centre 
pieces in Ruth’s map ; their children, their servants, were the 
accessories ; and one or two other names were occasionally 
mentioned. Ruth wondered and almost wearied at Miss 
Benson’s perseverance in talking to her about people whom 
she did not know; but, in truth, Miss Benson heard the 
long-drawn, quivering sighs which came from the poor heavy 
heart, when it was left to silence, and had leisure to review 
the past ; and her quick accustomed ear caught also the low 
mutterings of the thunder in the distance, in the shape of 
Sally’s soliloquies, which, like the asides at a theatre, were 
intended to be heard. Suddenly, Miss Benson called Ruth 
out of the room upstairs into her own bed-chamber, and 
then began rummaging in little old-fashioned boxes, drawn 
out of an equally old-fashioned bureau, half-desk, half-table, 
and wholly drawers. 

“ My dear, I’ve been very stupid and thoughtless. Oh ! 
I’m so glad I thought of it before Mrs. Bradshaw came to 
call. Here it is ! ” and she pulled out an old wedding-ring, 
and hurried it on Ruth’s finger. Ruth hung down her head, 
and reddened deep with shame ; her eyes smarted with the 
hot tears that filled them. Miss Benson talked on, in a 
nervous hurried way — 

“ It was my grandmother’s ; it’s very broad ; they made 
them so then, to hold a posy inside : there’s one in that — 

‘ Thine own sweetheart 
Till death doth part,’ 

I think it is. There, there ! Run away, and look as if you’d 
always worn it.” 

Ruth went up to her room, and threw herself down on 
her knees by the bedside, and cried as if her heart would 

142 


The Dissenting Minister’s Household 

break ; and then, as if a light had come down into her soul, 
she calmed herself and prayed — no words can tell how 
humbly, and with what earnest feeling. When she came 
down, she was tearstained and wretchedly pale; but even 
Sally looked at her with new eyes, because of the dignity 
with which she was invested by an earnestness of purpose 
which had her child for its object. She sat and thought, 
but she no longer heaved those bitter sighs which had 
wrung Miss Benson’s heart in the morning. In this way 
the day wore on ; early dinner, early tea seemed to make it 
preternaturally long to Ruth ; the only event was some un- 
explained absence of Sally’s, who had disappeared out of the 
house in the evening, much to Miss Benson’s surprise, and 
somewhat to her indignation. 

At night, after Ruth had gone up to her room, this 
absence was explained to her at least. She had let down 
her long waving glossy hair, and was standing absorbed in 
thought in the middle of the room, when she heard a round 
clumping knock at her door, different from that given by the 
small knuckles of delicate fingers, and in walked Sally, with 
a judge-like severity of demeanour, holding in her hand two 
widow’s caps of commonest make and coarsest texture. 
Queen Eleanor herself, when she presented the bowl to Fair 
Rosamond, had not a more relentless purpose stamped on 
her demeanour than had Sally at this moment. She walked 
up to the beautiful, astonished Ruth, where she stood in her 
long, soft, white dressing-gown, with all her luxuriant brown 
hair hanging dishevelled down her figure, and thus Sally 
spoke — 

“ Missus — or miss, as the case may be — I’ve my doubts 
as to you. I’m not going to have my master and Miss Faith 
put upon, or shame come near them. Widows wears these 
sort o’ caps, and has their hair cut off ; and whether widows 
wears wedding-rings or not, they shall have their hair cut 
off — they shall. I’ll have no half work in this house. I’ve 
lived with the family forty-nine year come Michaelmas, and 
I’ll not see it disgraced by any one’s fine long curls. Sit 

143 


Ruth 

down and let me snip off your hair, and let me see you 
sham decently in a widow’s cap to-morrow, or I’ll leave 
the house. Whatten’s come over Miss Faith, as used to 
be as mim a lady as ever was, to be taken by such as 
you, I dunnot know. Here ! sit down with ye, and let me 
crop you.” 

She laid no bgbt band on Bufch’s shoulder; and the 
latter, partly intimidated by the old servant, who bad 
hitherto only turned her vixen lining to observation, and 
partly because she was broken -spirited enough to be in- 
different to the measure proposed, quietly sat down. Sally 
produced the formidable pair of scissors that always hung 
at her side, and began to cut in a merciless manner. She 
expected some remonstrance or some opposition, and had a 
torrent of words ready to flow forth at the least sign of 
rebellion ; but Ruth was still and silent, with meekly-bowed 
head, under the strange hands that were shearing her beauti- 
ful hair into the clipped shortness of a boy’s. Long before 
she had finished, Sally had some slight misgivings as to the 
fancied necessity of her task; but it was too late, for half 
the curls were gone, and the rest must now come off. When 
she had done, she lifted up Ruth’s face by placing her hand 
under the round white chin. She gazed into the counte- 
nance, expecting to read some anger there, though it had 
not come out in words ; but she only met the large, quiet 
eyes, that looked at her with sad gentleness out of their 
finely-hollowed orbits. Ruth’s soft, yet dignified submission, 
touched Sally with compunction, though she did not choose 
to show the change in her feelings. She tried to hide it, 
indeed, by stooping to pick up the long bright tresses ; and, 
holding them up admiringly, and letting them drop down 
and float on the air (like the pendent branches of the 
weeping birch) she said : “I thought we should ha’ had 
some crying — I did. They’re pretty curls enough ; you’ve 
not been so bad to let them be cut off neither. You see, 
Master Thurstan is no wiser than a babby in some things ; 
and Miss Faith just lets him have his own way ; so it’s all 

144 


Ruth’s First Sunday at Eccleston 

left to me to keep him out of scrapes. I’ll wish you a very 
good night. I’ve heard many a one say as long hair was 
not wholesome. Good night.” 

But in a minute she popped her head into Ruth’s room 
once more — 

“ You’ll put on them caps to-morrow morning. I’ll make 
you a present on them.” 

Sally had carried away the beautiful curls, and she could 
not find it in her heart to throw such lovely chestnut tresses 
away, so she folded them up carefully in paper, and placed 
them in a safe corner of her drawer. 


CHAPTER XIV 

ruth’s FIRST SUNDAY AT ECCLESTON 

Ruth felt very shy when she came down (at half-past 
seven) the next morning, in her widow’s cap. Her smooth, 
pale face, with its oval untouched by time, looked more 
young and childlike than ever, when contrasted with the 
head-gear usually associated with ideas of age. She 
blushed very deeply as Mr. and Miss Benson showed the 
astonishment, which they could not conceal, in their looks. 
She said in a low voice to Miss Benson — 

“ Sally thought I had better wear it.” 

Miss Benson made no reply; but was startled at the 
intelligence, which she thought was conveyed in this speech, 
of Sally’s acquaintance with Ruth’s real situation. She 
noticed Sally’s looks particularly this morning. The 
manner in which the old servant treated Ruth had in it far 
more of respect than there had been the day before ; but 
there was a kind of satisfied way of braving out Miss 
Benson’s glances which made the latter uncertain and un- 
comfortable. 


145 


L 


Ruth 

She followed her brother into his study. 

“ Do you know, Thurstan, I am almost certain Sally 
suspects.” 

Mr. Benson sighed. That deception grieved him, and 
yet he thought he saw its necessity. 

“ What makes you think so ? ” asked he. 

“ Oh ! many little things. It was her odd way of 
ducking her head about, as if to catch a good view of Ruth’s 
left hand, that made me think of the wedding-ring ; and 
once, yesterday, when I thought I had made up quite a 
natural speech, and was saying how sad it was for so young 
a creature to be left a widow she broke in with ‘ widow be 
farred ! ’ in a very strange, contemptuous kind of manner.” 

“ If she suspects, we had far better tell her the truth at 
once. She will never rest till she finds it out, so we must 
make a virtue of necessity.” 

“ Well, brother, you shall tell her then, for I am sure I 
daren’t. I don’t mind doing the thing, since you talked to 
me that day, and since I have got to know Ruth ; but I do 
mind all the clatter people will make about it.” 

“ But Sally is not * people.’ ” 

“ Oh, I see it must be done ; she’ll talk as much as all 
the other persons put together, so that’s the reason I call 
her ‘ people.’ Shall I call her ? ” (For the house was too 
homely and primitive to have bells.) 

Sally came, fully aware of what was now going to be told 
her, and determined not to help them out in telling their 
awkward secret, by understanding the nature of it before it 
was put into the plainest language. In every pause, when 
they hoped she had caught the meaning they were hinting 
at, she persisted in looking stupid and perplexed, and in 
saying, “ Well,” as if quite unenlightened as to the end of 
the story. 

When it was all complete and before her, she said, 
honestly enough — - 

“ It’s just as I thought it was ; and I think you may 
thank me for having had the sense to put her into widow's 

146 


Ruth’s First Sunday at Eccleston 

caps, and clip off that bonny brown hair that was fitter for 
a bride in lawful matrimony than for such as her. She 
took it very well, though. She was as quiet as a lamb, and 
I clipped her pretty roughly at first. I must say, though, 
if I’d ha’ known who your visitor was, I’d ha’ packed up my 
things and cleared myself out of the house before such as 
her came into it. As it’s done, I suppose I must stand by 
you, and help you through with it ; I only hope I sha’n’t 
lose my character — and me a parish-clerk’s daughter ! ” 

“ O Sally ! people know you too well to think any ill of 
you,” said Miss Benson, who was pleased to find the difficulty 
so easily got over ; for, in truth, Sally had been much softened 
by the unresisting gentleness with which Ruth had submitted 
to the “ clipping ” of the night before. 

“ If I’d been with you, Master Thurstan, I’d ha’ seen 
sharp after you, for you’re always picking up some one or 
another as nobody else would touch with a pair of tongs. 
Why, there was that Nelly Brandon’s child as was left at 
our door, if I hadn’t gone to th’ overseer we should have 
had that Irish tramp’s babby saddled on us for life ; but I 
went off and told th’ overseer, and the mother was caught.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Benson sadly, “ and I often lie awake 
and wonder what is the fate of that poor little thing, forced 
back on the mother who tried to get quit of it. I often 
doubt whether I did right ; but it’s no use thinking about 
it now.” 

“ I’m thankful it isn’t,” said Sally ; “ and now, if we’ve 
talked doctrine long enough, I’ll make th’ beds. Yon girl’s 
secret is safe enough for me.” 

Saying this she left the room, and Miss Benson followed. 
She found Ruth busy washing the breakfast things; and 
they were done in so quiet and orderly a manner, that neither 
Miss Benson nor Sally, both particular enough, had any of 
their little fancies or prejudices annoyed. She seemed to 
have an instinctive knowledge of the exact period when her 
help was likely to become a hindrance, and withdrew from 
the busy kitchen just at the right time. 

147 


Ruth 

That afternoon, as Miss Benson and Ruth sat at their 
work, Mrs. and Miss Bradshaw called. Miss Benson was 
so nervous as to surprise Ruth, who did not understand the 
probable and possible questions which might be asked re- 
specting any visitor at the minister’s house. Ruth went on 
sewing, absorbed in her own thoughts, and glad that the 
conversation between the two elder ladies and the silence of 
the younger one, who sat at some distance from her, gave 
her an opportunity of retreating into the haunts of memory ; 
and soon the work fell from her hands, and her eyes were 
fixed on the little garden beyond, but she did not see its 
flowers or its walls ; she saw the mountains which girdled 
Llan-dhu, and saw the sun rise from behind their iron out- 
line, just as it had done — how long ago ? was it months or 
was it years ? — since she had watched the night through, 
crouched up at his door. Which was the dream and which 
the reality ? that distant life or this ? His moans rang more 
clearly in her ears than the buzzing of the conversation 
between Mrs. Bradshaw and Miss Benson. 

At length the subdued, scared-looking little lady and her 
bright-eyed silent daughter rose to take leave ; Ruth started 
into the present, and stood up and curtseyed, and turned 
sick at heart with sudden recollection. 

Miss Benson accompanied Mrs. Bradshaw to the door; 
and in the passage gave her a long explanation of Ruth’s 
(fictitious) history. Mrs. Bradshaw looked so much interested 
and pleased, that Miss Benson enlarged a little more than 
was necessary, and rounded off her invention with one or 
two imaginary details, which, she was quite unconscious, were 
overheard by her brother through the half-open study door. 

She was rather dismayed when he called her into his 
room after Mrs. Bradshaw’s departure, and asked her what 
she had been saying about Ruth ? 

“ Oh ! I thought it was better to explain it thoroughly 

I mean, to tell the story we wished to have believed once 
for all — you know we agreed about that, Thurstan ? ” 
deprecatingly. 


148 


Ruth s First Sunday at Eccleston 

“ Yes ; but I heard you saying you believed her husband 
had been a young surgeon, did I not ? ” 

“Well, Thurstan, you know he must have been some- 
thing ; and young surgeons are so in the way of dying it 
seemed very natural. Besides,” said she with sudden bold- 
ness, “ I do think I’ve a talent for fiction, it is so pleasant to 
invent, and make the incidents dovetail together ; and after 
all, if we are to tell a lie, we may as well do it thoroughly or 
else it’s of no use. A bungling lie would be worse than use- 
less. And, Thurstan— it may be very wrong— but I believe 
—I am afraid I enjoy not being fettered by truth. Don’t 
look so grave. You know it is necessary, if ever it was, to 
tell falsehoods now ; and don’t be angry with me because I 
do it well.” 


He was shading his eyes with his hand, and did not 
speak for some time. At last he said — 

“If it were not for the child, I would tell all ; but the 
world is so cruel. You don’t know how this apparent 
necessity for falsehood pains me, Faith, or you would not 
invent all these details, which are so many additional lies.” 

“ Well, well ! I will restrain myself if I have to talk 
about Buth again. But Mrs. Bradshaw will tell every one 
who need to know. You don’t wish me to contradict it, 
Thurstan, surely — it was such a pretty, probable story.” 

“ Faith ! I hope God will forgive us if we are doing 
wrong; and pray, dear, don’t add one unnecessary word 
that is not true.” 

Another day elapsed, and then it was Sunday: and the 
house seemed filled with a deep peace. Even Sally’s move- 
ments were less hasty and abrupt. Mr. Benson seemed 
invested with a new dignity, which made his bodily deformity 
be forgotten in his calm, grave composure of spirit. Every 
trace of week-day occupation was put away ; the night 
before, a bright new handsome tablecloth had been smoothed 
down over the table, and the jars had been freshly filled 
with flowers. Sunday was a festival and a holyday in the 
house. After the very early breakfast, little feet pattered 

149 


Ruth 

into Mr. Benson’s study, for he had a class for boys — a sort 
of domestic Sunday-school, only that there was more talking 
between teachers and pupils, than dry, absolute lessons 
going on. Miss Benson, too, had her little, neat-tippeted 
maidens sitting with her in the parlour ; and she was far 
more particular in keeping them to their reading and spelling 
than her brother was with his boys. Sally, too, put in her 
word of instruction from the kitchen, helping, as she fancied, 
though her assistance was often rather malapropos ; for 
instance, she called out, to a little fat, stupid, roly-poly girl, 
to whom Miss Benson was busy explaining the meaning of 
the word quadruped — 

“Quadruped, a thing wi’ four legs, Jenny; a chair is a 
quadruped, child ! ” 

But Miss Benson had a deaf manner sometimes when 
her patience was not too severely tried, and she put it on 
now. Ruth sat on a low hassock, and coaxed the least of 
the little creatures to her, and showed it pictures till it fell 
asleep in her arms, and sent a thrill through her, at the 
thought of the tiny darling who would lie on her breast 
before long, and whom she would have to cherish and to 
shelter from the storms of the world. 

And then she remembered, that she was once white and 
sinless as the wee lassie who lay in her arms ; and she knew 
that she had gone astray. By-and-by the children trooped 
away, and Miss Benson summoned her to put on her things 
for chapel. 

The chapel was up a narrow street, or rather cul-de-sac , 
close by. It stood on the outskirts of the town, almost in 
fields. It was built about the time of Matthew and Philip 
Henry, when the Dissenters were afraid of attracting atten- 
tion or observation, and hid their places of worship in 
obscure and out-of-the-way parts of the towns in which 
they were built. Accordingly, it often happened, as in the 
present case, that the buildings immediately surrounding, as 
well as the chapels themselves, looked as if they carried you 
back to a period a hundred and fifty years ago. The chapel 

150 


Ruth’s First Sunday at Eccleston 

had a picturesque and old-world look, for luckily the con- 
gregation had been too poor to rebuild it, or new-face it, in 
George the Third’s time. The staircases which led to the 
galleries were outside, at each end of the building, and the 
irregular roof and worn stone steps looked grey and stained 
by time and weather. The grassy hillocks, each with a 
little upright headstone, were shaded by a grand old wych- 
elm. A lilac-bush or two, a white rose-tree, and a few 
laburnums, all old and gnarled enough, were planted round 
the chapel yard; and the casement windows of the chapel 
were made of heavy-leaded, diamond- shaped panes, almost 
covered with ivy, producing a green gloom, not without its 
solemnity, within. This ivy was the home of an infinite 
number of little birds, which twittered and warbled, till it 
might have been thought that they were emulous of the 
power of praise possessed by the human creatures within, 
with such earnest, long-drawn strains did this crowd of 
winged songsters rejoice and be glad in their beautiful gift 
of life. The interior of the building was plain and simple as 
plain and simple could be. When it was fitted up, oak- 
timber was much cheaper than it is now, so the wood- work 
was all of that description ; but roughly hewed, for the 
early builders had not much wealth to spare. The wails 
were whitewashed, and were recipients of the shadows of the 
beauty without ; on their “ white plains ” the tracery of the 
ivy might be seen, now still, now stirred by the sudden 
flight of some little bird. The congregation consisted of 
here and there a farmer with his labourers, who came down 
from the uplands beyond the town to worship where their 
fathers worshipped, and who loved the place because they 
knew how much those fathers had suffered for it, although 
they never troubled themselves with the reason why they 
left the parish church ; and of a few shopkeepers, far more 
thoughtful and reasoning, who were Dissenters from con- 
viction, unmixed with old ancestral association ; and of one 
or two families of still higher worldly station. With many 
poor, who were drawn there by love for Mr. Benson’s 

I 5 I 


Ruth 

character, and by a feeling that the faith which made him 
what he was could not be far wrong, for the base of the 
pyramid, and with Mr. Bradshaw for its apex, the congrega- 
tion stood complete. 

The country people came in sleeking down their hair, and 
treading with earnest attempts at noiseless lightness of step 
over the floor of the aisle ; and, by- and- by, when all were 
assembled, Mr. Benson followed, unmarshalled and un- 
attended. When he had closed the pulpit-door, and knelt in 
prayer for an instant or two, he gave out a psalm from the dear 
old Scottish paraphrase, with its primitive inversion of the 
simple perfect Bible words ; and a kind of precentor stood up, 
and, having sounded the note on a pitch-pipe, sang a couple of 
lines by way of indicating the tune ; then all the congrega- 
tion stood up, and sang aloud, Mr. Bradshaw’s great bass 
voice being half a note in advance of the others, in accord- 
ance with his place of precedence as principal member of 
the congregation. His powerful voice was like an organ 
very badly played, and very much out of tune ; but as he 
had no ear, and no diffidence, it pleased him very much to 
hear the fine loud sound. He was a tall, large-boned, iron 
man ; stern, powerful, and authoritative in appearance ; 
dressed in clothes of the finest broadcloth, and scrupulously 
ill-made, as if to show that he was indifferent to all outward 
things. His wife was sweet and gentle-looking, but as if she 
was thoroughly broken into submission. 

Ruth did not see this, or hear aught but the words which 
were reverently — oh, how reverently ! — spoken by Mr. 
Benson. He had had Ruth present in his thoughts all the 
time he had been preparing for his Sunday duty ; and he 
had tried carefully to eschew everything which she might 
feel as an allusion to her own case. He remembered how 
the Good Shepherd, in Poussin’s beautiful picture, tenderly 
carried the lambs which had wearied themselves by going 
astray, and felt how like tenderness was required towards 
poor Ruth. But where is the chapter which does not contain 
something which a broken and contrite spirit may not apply 

i5 2 


Ruth’s First Sunday at Eccleston 

to itself ? And so it fell ont that, as he read, Ruth’s heart 
was smitten, and she sank down, and down, till she was 
kneeling on the floor of the pew, and speaking to God in the 
spirit, if not in the words, of the Prodigal Son : “ Father ! I 
have sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no 
more worthy to be called Thy child ! ” Miss Benson was 
thankful (although she loved Ruth the better for this self- 
abandonment) that the minister’s seat was far in the shade 
of the gallery. She tried to look most attentive to her 
brother, in order that Mr. Bradshaw might not suspect 
anything unusual, while she stealthily took hold of Ruth’s 
passive hand, as it lay helpless on the cushion, and pressed 
it softly and tenderly. But Ruth sat on the ground, bowed 
down and crushed in her sorrow, till all was ended. 

Miss Benson loitered in her seat, divided between the 
consciousness that she, as locum tenens for the minister’s wife, 
was expected to be at the door to receive the kind greetings 
of many after her absence from home, and her unwillingness 
to disturb Ruth, who was evidently praying, and, by her quiet 
breathing, receiving grave and solemn influences into her 
soul. At length she rose up, calm and composed even to 
dignity. The chapel was still and empty ; but Miss Benson 
heard the buzz of voices in the chapel-yard without. They 
were probably those of people waiting for her; and she 
summoned courage, and taking Ruth’s arm in hers, and 
holding her hand affectionately, they went out into the 
broad daylight. As they issued forth, Miss Benson heard 
Mr. Bradshaw’s strong bass voice speaking to her brother, 
and winced, as she knew he would be wincing, under the 
broad praise, which is impertinence, however little it may be 
intended or esteemed as such. 

“ Oh, yes !— my wife told me yesterday about her — her 
husband was a surgeon ; my father was a surgeon too, as I 
think you have heard. Very much to your credit, I must 
say, Mr. Benson, with your limited means, to burden 
yourself with a poor relation. Very creditable indeed.” 

Miss Benson glanced at Ruth ; she either did not hear or 
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Ruth 

did not understand, but passed on into the awful sphere of 
Mr. Bradshaw’s observation unmoved. He was in a bland 
and condescending humour of universal approval, and when 
he saw Ruth he nodded his head in token of satisfaction. 
That ordeal was over, Miss Benson thought, and in the 
thought rejoiced. 

“ After dinner, you must go and lie down, my dear,” said 
she, untying Ruth’s bonnet-strings, and kissing her. “ Sally 
goes to church again, but you won’t mind staying alone in 
the house. I am sorry we have so many people to dinner ; 
but my brother will always have enough on Sundays for any 
old or weak people, who may have come from a distance, to 
stay and dine with us ; and to-day they all seem to have 
come, because it is his first Sabbath at home.” 

In this way Ruth’s first Sunday passed over. 


CHAPTER XV 

MOTHER AND CHILD 

“ Here is a parcel for you, Ruth ! ” said Miss Benson on the 
Tuesday morning. 

“ For me ! ” said Ruth, all sorts of rushing thoughts and 
hopes filling her mind, and turning her dizzy with expectation. 
If it had been from “ him,” the new-born resolutions would 
have had a hard struggle for existence. 

“ It is directed ‘ Mrs. Denbigh,’ ” said Miss Benson, before 
giving it up. “ It is in Mrs. Bradshaw’s handwriting ; ” and, 
far more curious than Ruth, she awaited the untying of the 
close-knotted string. When the paper was opened, it 
displayed a whole piece of delicate cambric muslin ; and 
there was a short note from Mrs. Bradshaw to Ruth, saying 
her husband had wished her to send this muslin in aid of any 

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Mother and Child 

preparations Mrs. Denbigh might have to make. Ruth 
said nothing, but coloured up, and sat down again to her 
employment. 

“ Very fine muslin, indeed,” said Miss Benson, feeling it, 
and holding it up against the light, with the air of a 
connoisseur; yet all the time she was glancing at Ruth’s 
grave face. The latter kept silence, and showed no wish 
to inspect her present further. At last she said, in a low 
voice — 

“ I suppose I may send it back again ? ” 

“ My dear child ! send it back to Mr. Bradshaw ! You’d 
offend him for life. You may depend upon it, he means it 
as a mark of high favour ! ” 

“ What right had he to send it me?” asked Ruth, still in 
her quiet voice. 

“ What right ? Mr. Bradshaw thinks I don’t know 

exactly what you mean by ‘ right.’ ” 

Ruth was silent for a moment, and then said — 

“ There are people to whom I love to feel that I owe 
gratitude — gratitude which I cannot express, and had better 
not talk about — but I cannot see why a person whom I do 
not know should lay me under an obligation. Oh ! don’t say 
I must take this muslin, please, Miss Benson ! ” 

What Miss Benson might have said if her brother had 
not just then entered the room, neither he nor any other 
person could tell; but she felt his presence was most 
opportune, and called him in as umpire. He had come 
hastily, for he had much to do ; but he no sooner heard the 
case than he sat down, and tried to draw some more explicit 
declaration of her feeling from Ruth, who had remained 
silent during Miss Benson’s explanation. 

“ You would rather send this present back ? ” said he. 

“ Yes,” she answered softly. “ Is it wrong ? ” 

“ Why do you want to return it ? ” 

“ Because I feel as if Mr. Bradshaw had no right to offer 
it me.” 

Mr. Benson was silent. 


155 


Ruth 

“ It’s beautifully fine,” said Miss Benson, still examining 
the piece. 

“ You think that it is a right which must be earned ? ” 

“ Yes,” said she, after a minute’s pause. “ Don’t you ? ” 

“ I understand what you mean. It is a delight to have 
gifts made to you by those whom you esteem and love, 
because then such gifts are merely to be considered as 
fringes to the garment — as inconsiderable additions to the 
mighty treasure of their affection, adding a grace, but no 
additional value, to what before was precious, and pro- 
ceeding as naturally out of that as leaves burgeon out upon 
the trees ; but you feel it to be different when there is no 
regard for the giver to idealise the gift — when it simply takes 
its stand among your property as so much money’s value. 
Is this it, Ruth ? ” 

“ I think it is. I never reasoned why I felt as I did ; I 
only knew that Mr. Bradshaw’s giving me a present hurt 
me, instead of making me glad.” 

“ Well, but there is another side of the case we have not 
looked at yet — we must think of that, too. You know who 
said, ‘ Do unto others as ye would that they should do unto 
you ’ ? Mr. Bradshaw may not have had that in his mind 
when he desired his wife to send you this ; he may have 
been self-seeking, and only anxious to gratify his love of 
patronising — that is the worst motive we can give him ; and 
that would be no excuse for your thinking only of yourself, 
and returning his present.” 

“ But you would not have me pretend to be obliged ? ” 
asked Ruth. 

“No, I would not. I have often been similarly situated 
to you, Ruth ; Mr. Bradshaw has frequently opposed me on 
the points on which I feel the warmest — am the most 
earnestly convinced. He, no doubt, thinks me Quixotic, 
and often speaks of me, and to me, with great contempt 
when he is angry. I suppose he has a little fit of penitence 
afterwards, or perhaps he thinks he can pay for ungracious 
speeches by a present ; so, formerly, he invariably sent me 

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Mother and Child 

something after these occasions. It was a time, of all others, 
to feel as you are doing now; but I became convinced it 
would be right to accept them, giving only the very cool 
thanks which I felt. This omission of all show of much 
gratitude had the best effect — the presents have much 
diminished ; but, if the gifts have lessened, the unjustifiable 
speeches have decreased in still greater proportion, and 
I am sure we respect each other more. Take this muslin, 
Ruth, for the reason I named ; and thank him as your 
feelings prompt you. Overstrained expressions of gratitude 
always seem like an endeavour to place the receiver of these 
expressions in the position of debtor for future favours. But 
you won’t fall into this error.” 

Ruth listened to Mr. Benson ; but she had not yet fallen 
sufficiently into the tone of his mind to understand him fully. 
She only felt that he comprehended her better than Miss 
Benson, who' once more tried to reconcile her to her present, 
by calling her attention to the length and breadth thereof. 

“I will do what you wish me,” she said, after a little 
pause of thoughtfulness. “ May we talk of something else ? ” 

Mr. Benson saw that his sister’s frame of mind was not 
particularly congenial with Ruth’s, any more than Ruth’s 
was with Miss Benson’s ; and, putting aside all thought of 
returning to the business which had appeared to him so 
important when he came into the room (but which princi- 
pally related to himself), he remained above an hour in the 
parlour, interesting them on subjects far removed from the 
present, and left them at the end of that time soothed and 
calm. 

But the present gave a new current to Ruth’s ideas. 
Her heart was as yet too sore to speak, but her mind was 
crowded with plans. She asked Sally to buy her (with the 
money produced by the sale of a ring or two) the coarsest 
linen, the homeliest dark blue print, and similar materials ; 
on which she set busily to work to make clothes for herself ; 
and as they were made, she put them on ; and as she put 
them on, she gave a grace to each, which such homely 

157 


Ruth 

material and simple shaping had never had before. Then 
the fine linen and delicate soft white muslin, which she had 
chosen in preference to more expensive articles of dress 
when Mr. Bellingham had given her carte blanche in London, 
were cut into small garments, most daintily stitched and 
made ready for the little creature, for whom in its white 
purity of soul nothing could be too precious. 

The love which dictated this extreme simplicity and 
coarseness of attire, was taken for stiff, hard economy by 
Mr. Bradshaw, when he deigned to observe it. And economy 
by itself, without any soul or spirit in it to make it living 
and holy, was a great merit in his eyes. Indeed, Buth 
altogether found favour with him. Her quiet manner, 
subdued by an internal consciousness of a deeper cause for 
sorrow than he was aware of, he interpreted into a very 
proper and becoming awe of him. He looked off from his 
own prayers to observe how well she attended to hers at 
chapel ; when he came to any verse in the hymn relating 
to immortality or a future life, he sung it unusually loud, 
thinking he should thus comfort her in her sorrow for her 
deceased husband. He desired Mrs. Bradshaw to pay her 
every attention she could ; and even once remarked, that he 
thought her so respectable a young person that he should 
not object to her being asked to tea the next time Mr. and 
Miss Benson came. He added, that he thought, indeed, 
Benson had looked last Sunday as if he rather hoped to get 
an invitation ; and it was right to encourage the ministers, 
and to show them respect, even though their salaries were 
small. The only thing against this Mrs. Denbigh was the 
circumstance of her having married too early, and without 
any provision for a family. Though Buth pleaded delicacy 
of health, and declined accompanying Mr. and Miss Benson 
on their visit to Mr. Bradshaw, she still preserved her place 
in his esteem ; and Miss Benson had to call a little upon her 
“ talent for fiction ” to spare Buth from the infliction of 
further presents, in making which his love of patronising 
delighted. 


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Mother and Child 

The yellow and crimson leaves came floating down on 
the still October air ; November followed, bleak and dreary ; 
it was more cheerful when the earth put on her beautiful 
robe of white, which covered up all the grey naked stems, 
and loaded the leaves of the hollies and evergreens each 
with its burden of feathery snow. When Ruth sat down to 
languor and sadness, Miss Benson trotted upstairs, and 
rummaged up every article of spare or worn-out clothing, 
and bringing down a variety of strange materials, she tried 
to interest Ruth in making them up into garments for the 
poor. But, though Ruth’s fingers flew through the work, 
she still sighed with thought and remembrance. Miss 
Benson was at first disappointed, and then she was angry. 
When she heard the low, long sigh, and saw the dreamy 
eyes filling with glittering tears, she would say, “ What is 
the matter, Ruth ? ” in a half -reproachful tone, for the sight 
of suffering was painful to her; she had done all in her 
power to remedy it ; and, though she acknowledged a cause 
beyond her reach for Ruth’s deep sorrow, and, in fact, 
loved and respected her all the more for these manifestations 
of grief, yet at the time they irritated her. Then Ruth 
would snatch up the dropped work, and stitch away with 
drooping eyes, from which the hot tears fell fast ; and Miss 
Benson was then angry with herself, yet not at all inclined 
to agree with Sally when she asked her mistress “ why she 
kept ‘ mithering ’ the poor lass with asking her for ever what 
was the matter, as if she did not know well enough.’ Some 
element of harmony was wanting — some little angel of 
peace, in loving whom all hearts and natures should be 
drawn together, and their discords hushed. 

The earth was still “ hiding her guilty front with innocent 
snow,” when a little baby was laid by the side of the pale, 
white mother. It was a boy ; beforehand she had wished 
for a girl, as being less likely to feel the want of a father 
as being what a mother, worse than widowed, could most 
effectually shelter. But now she did not think or remember 
this. What it was, she would not have exchanged for a 

159 


Ruth 

wilderness of girls. It was her own, her darling, hei 
individual baby, already, though not an hour old, separate 
and sole in her heart, strangely filling up its measure with 
love and peace, and even hope. For here was a new, pure, 
beautiful, innocent life, which she fondly imagined, in that 
early passion of maternal love, she could guard from every 
touch of corrupting sin by ever watchful and most tender 
care. And her mother had thought the same, most probably ; 
and thousands of others think the same, and pray to God to 
purify and cleanse their souls, that they may be fit guardians 
for their little children. Oh, how Ruth prayed, even while 
she was yet too weak to speak ; and how she felt the beauty 
and significance of the words, “ Our Father ! ” 

She was roused from this holy abstraction by the sound 
of Miss Benson’s voice. It was very much as if she had 
been crying. 

“ Look, Ruth ! ” it said softly, “ my brother sends you 
these. They are the first snowdrops in the garden.” And 
she put them on the pillow by Ruth ; the baby lay on the 
opposite side. 

“ Won’t you look at him ? ” said Ruth ; “ he is so pretty ! ” 

Miss Benson had a strange reluctance to see him. To 
Ruth, in spite of all that had come and gone, she was recon- 
ciled — nay, more, she was deeply attached; but over the 
baby there hung a cloud of shame and disgrace. Poor 
little creature ! her heart was closed against it — firmly, as 
she thought. But she could not resist Ruth’s low faint 
voice, nor her pleading eyes, and she went round to peep at 
him as he lay on his mother’s arm, as yet his shield and 
guard. 

“ Sally says he will have black hair, she thinks,” said 
Ruth. “ His little hand is quite a man’s, already. Just feel 
how firmly he closes it ; ” and with her own weak fingers she 
opened his little red fist, and taking Miss Benson’s reluctant 
hand, placed one of her fingers in his grasp. That baby- 
touch called out her love ; the doors of her heart were thrown 
open wide for the little infant to go in and take possession. 

160 


Mother and Child 

“ Ah, my darling ! ” said Enth, falling back weak and 
weary. “ If God will but spare you to me, never mother 
did more than I will. I have done you a grievous wrong — 
but, if I may but live, I will spend my life in serving you ! ” 

“ And in serving God ! ” said Miss Benson, with tears in 
her eyes. “ You must not make him into an idol, or God 
will, perhaps, punish you through him.” 

A pang of affright shot through Euth’s heart at these 
words ; had she already sinned and made her child into an 
idol, and was there punishment already in store for her 
through him ? But then the internal voice whispered that 
God was “ Our Father,” and that He knew our frame, and 
knew how natural was the first outburst of a mother’s love ; 
so, although she treasured up the warning, she ceased to 
affright herself for what had already gushed forth. 

“ Now go to sleep, Buth,” said Miss Benson, kissing her, 
and darkening the room. But Euth could not sleep ; if her 
heavy eyes closed, she opened them again with a start, for 
sleep seemed to be an enemy stealing from her the conscious- 
ness of being a mother. That one thought excluded all 
remembrance and all anticipation, in those first hours of 
delight. 

But soon remembrance and anticipation came. There 
was the natural want of the person, who alone could take an 
interest similar in kind, though not in amount, to the 
mother’s. And sadness grew like a giant in the still watches 
of the night, when she remembered that there would be no 
father to guide and strengthen the child, and place him in a 
favourable position for fighting the hard “ Battle of Life.” 
She hoped and believed that no one would know the sin of 
his parents ; and that that struggle might be spared to him. 
But a father’s powerful care and mighty guidance would 
never be his ; and then, in those hours of spiritual purifica- 
tion, came the wonder and the doubt of how far the real 
father would be the one to whom, with her desire of heaven 
for her child, whatever might become of herself, she would 
wish to intrust him. Slight speeches, telling of a selfish, 

161 M 


Ruth 

Worldly nature, unnoticed at the time, came back upon her 
ear, having a new significance. They told of a low standard, 
of impatient self-indulgence, of no acknowledgment of things 
spiritual and heavenly. Even while this examination was 
forced upon her, by the new spirit of maternity that had 
entered into her and made her child’s welfare supreme, she 
hated and reproached herself for the necessity there seemed 
upon her of examining and judging the absent father of her 
child. And so the compelling presence that had taken 
possession of her wearied her into a kind of feverish slumber ; 
in which she dreamt that the innocent babe that lay by her 
side in soft ruddy slumber, had started up into man’s growth, 
and, instead of the pure and noble being whom she had 
prayed to present as her child to “ Our Father in heaven,” 
he was a repetition of his father ; and, like him, lured some 
maiden (who in her dream seemed strangely like herself, 
only more utterly sad and desolate even than she) into sin, 
and left her there to even a worse fate than that of suicide. 
For Ruth believed there was a worse. She dreamt she saw 
the girl, wandering, lost ; and that she saw her son in high 
places, prosperous — but with more than blood on his soul. 
She saw her son dragged down by the clinging girl into some 
pit of horrors into which she dared not look, but from whence 
his father’s voice was heard, crying aloud, that in his day 
and generation he had not remembered the words of God, 
and that now he was “ tormented in this flame.” Then she 
started in sick terror, and saw, by the dim rushlight, Sally, 
nodding in an armchair by the fire ; and felt her little soft 
warm babe, nestled up against her breast, rocked by her 
heart, which yet beat hard from the effects of the evil dream. 
She dared not go to sleep again, but prayed. And, every 
time she prayed, she asked with a more complete wisdom, 
and a more utter and self -forgetting faith. Little child ! thy 
angel was with God, and drew her nearer and nearer to 
Him, whose face is continually beheld by the angels of little 
children. 


Sally tells of her Sweethearts 


CHAPTER XVI 

SALLY TELLS OF HER SWEETHEARTS, AND DISCOURSES ON THE 
DUTIES OF LIFE 

Sally and Miss Benson took it in turns to sit up, or rather, 
they took it in turns to nod by the fire; for if Ruth was 
awake she lay very still in the moonlight calm of her sick 
bed. That time resembled a beautiful August evening, such 
as I have seen. The white, snowy rolling mist covers up 
under its great sheet all trees and meadows, and tokens of 
earth; but it cannot rise high enough to shut out the 
heavens, which on such nights seem bending very near, and 
to be the only real and present objects ; and so near, so real 
and present, did heaven, and eternity, and God seem to 
Ruth, as she lay encircling her mysterious holy child. 

One night Sally found out she was not asleep. 

“ I’m a rare hand at talking folks to sleep,” said she. 
“ I’ll try on thee, for thou must get strength by sleeping and 
eating. What must I talk to thee about, I wonder. Shall I 
tell thee a love story or a fairy story, such as I’ve telled 
Master Thurstan many a time and many a time, for all his 
father set his face again fairies, and called it vain talking ; or 
shall I tell you the dinner I once cooked, when Mr. Harding, 
as was Miss Faith’s sweetheart, came unlooked for, and we’d 
nought in the house but a neck of mutton, out of which I 
made seven dishes, all with a different name ? ” 

“ Who was Mr. Harding? ” asked Ruth. 

“ Oh, he was a grand gentleman from Lunnon, as had 
seen Miss Faith, and been struck by her pretty looks when 
she was out on a visit, and came here to ask her to marry 
him. She said, * No, she would never leave Master Thurstan, 
as could never marry; * but she pined a deal at after he went 
away. She kept up afore Master Thurstan, but I seed her 
fretting, though I never let on that I did, for I thought she’d 

163 


Ruth 

soonest get over it and be thankful at after she’d the strength 
to do right. However, I’ve no business to be talking of Miss 
Benson’s concerns. I’ll tell you of my own sweethearts and 
welcome, or I’ll tell you of the dinner, which was the 
grandest thing I ever did in my life, but I thought a Lunnoner 
should never think country folks knew nothing ; and, my 
word, I puzzled him with his dinner. I’m doubting whether 
to this day he knows whether what he was eating was fish, 
flesh, or fowl. Shall I tell you how I managed ? ” 

But Ruth said she would rather hear about Sally’s 
sweethearts ; much to the disappointment of the latter, who 
considered the dinner by far the greatest achievement. 

“Well, you see, I don’t know as I should call them 
sweethearts ; for excepting John Rawson, who was shut up 
in a mad-house the next week, I never had what you may 
call a downright offer of marriage but once. But I had once ; 
and so I may say I had a sweetheart. I was beginning to be 
afeard though, for one likes to be axed ; that’s but civility ; 
and I remember, after I had turned forty, and afore Jeremiah 
Dixon had spoken, I began to think John Rawson had 
perhaps not been so very mad, and that I’d done ill to lightly 
his offer, as a madman’s, if it was to be the only one I was 
ever to have ; I don’t mean as I’d have had him, but I thought, 
if it was to come o’er again, I’d speak respectful of him to 
folk, and say it were only his way to go about on all-fours, 
but that he was a sensible man in most things. However, 
I’d had my laugh, and so had others, at my crazy lover, and 
it was late now to set him up as a Solomon. However, I 
thought it would be no bad thing to be tried again ; but I 
little thought the trial would come when it did. You see, 
Saturday night is a leisure night in counting-houses and 
such-like places, while it’s the busiest of all for servants. 
Well ! it was a Saturday night, and I’d my baize apron on, 
and the tails of my bed-gown pinned together behind, down 
on my knees, pipeclaying the [kitchen, when a knock comes 
to the back door. ‘ Come in ! ’ says I ; but it knocked again, 
as if it were too stately to open the door for itself ; so I got 

164 


Sally tells of her Sweethearts 

up rather cross, and opened the door; and there stood Jerry 
Dixon, Mr. Holt’s head-clerk ; only he was not head-clerk 
then. So I stood, stopping np the door, fancying he wanted 
to speak to master; but he kind of pushed past me, and 
telling me summut about the weather (as if I could not see it 
for myself), he took a chair, and sat down by the oven. * Cool 
and easy ! ’ thought I ; meaning hisself, not his place, which 
I knew must be pretty hot. Well ! it seemed no use standing 
waiting for my gentleman to go ; not that he had much to say 
either; but he kept twirling his hat round and round, and 
smoothing the nap on’t with the back of his hand. So at 
last I squatted down to my work, and thinks I, I shall be on 
my knees all ready if he puts up a prayer, for I knew he was 
a Methodee by bringing-up, and had only lately turned to 
master’s way of thinking ; and them Methodees are terrible 
hands at unexpected prayers when one least looks for ’em. I 
can’t say I like their way of taking one by surprise, as it 
were ; but then I’m a parish-clerk’s daughter, and could 
never demean myself to dissenting fashions, always save and 
except Master Thurstan’s, bless him. However, I’d been 
caught once or twice unawares, so this time I thought I’d be 
up to it, and I moved a dry duster wherever I went, to kneel 
upon in case he began when I were in a wet place. By-and- 
by I thought, if the man would pray it would be a blessing, 
for it would prevent his sending his eyes after me wherever I 
went ; for when they takes to praying they shuts their eyes, 
and quivers th’ lids in a queer kind o’ way — them Dissenters 
does. I can speak pretty plain to you, for you’re bred in the 
Church like mysel’, and must find it as out o’ the way as I 
do to be among dissenting folk. God forbid I should speak 
disrespectful of Master Thurstan and Miss Faith, though ; I 
never think on them as Church or Dissenters, but just as 
Christians. But to come back to Jerry. First, I tried always 
to be cleaning at his back ; but when he wheeled round, so as 
always to face me, I thought I’d try a different game. So, 
says I, ‘ Master Dixon, I ax your pardon, but I must pipeclay 
under your chair. Will you please to move ? * Well, he 

i6 5 


Ruth 

moved ; and by-and-by I was at him again with the same 
words ; and at after that, again and again, till he were always 
moving about wi’ his chair behind him, like a snail as carries 
its house on its back. And the great gaupus never seed that 
I were pipeclaying the same places twice over. At last I got 
desperate cross, he were so in my way ; so I made two big 
crosses on the tails of his brown coat ; for you see, wherever 
he went, up or down, he drew out the tails of his coat from 
under him, and stuck them through the bars of the chair ; 
and flesh and blood could not resist pipeclaying them for 
him ; and a pretty brushing he’d have, I reckon, to get it off 
again. Well ! at length he clears his throat uncommon 
loud ; so I spreads my duster, and shuts my eyes all ready ; 
but when nought corned of it, I opened my eyes a little bit 
to see what he were about. My word ! if there he wasn’t 
down on his knees right facing me, staring as hard as he 
could. Well ! I thought it would be hard work to stand that, 
if he made a long ado ; so I shut my eyes again, and tried to 
think serious, as became what I fancied were coming ; but 
forgive me ! but I thought why couldn’t the fellow go in and 
pray wi ’ Master Thurstan, as had always a calm spirit ready 
for prayer, instead o’ me who had my dresser to scour, let 
alone an apron to iron. At last he says, says he, ‘ Sally ! 
will you oblige me with your hand ? ’ So I thought it were, 
maybe, Methodee fashion to pray hand in hand ; and I’ll not 
deny but I wished I’d washed it better after blackleading the 
kitchen fire. I thought I’d better tell him it were not so 
clean as I could wish, so says I, ‘ Master Dixon, you shall 
have it, and welcome, if I may just go and wash ’em first.’ 
But, says he, ‘ My dear Sally, dirty or clean, it’s all the same 
to me, seeing I’m only speaking in a figuring way. What I’m 
asking on my bended knees is, that you’d please to be so kind 
as to be my wedded wife ; week after next will suit me, if it’s 
agreeable to you ! ’ My word ! I were up on my feet in an 
instant ! It were odd now, weren’t it ? I never thought of 
taking the fellow, and getting married; for all, I’ll not deny, 
I had been thinking it would be agreeable to be axed. But 

1 66 


Sally tells of her Sweethearts 

all at once, I couldn’t abide the chap. ‘ Sir,’ says I, trying to 
look shamefaced as became the occasion, but for all that 
feeling a twittering round my mouth that I were afeard 
might end in a laugh — ‘ Master Dixon, I’m obleeged to you 
for the compliment, and thank ye all the same, but I think 
I’d prefer a single life.’ He looked mighty taken aback ; but 
in a minute he cleared up, and was as sweet as ever. He 
still kept on his knees, and I wished he’d take himself up ; 
but, I reckon, he thought it would give force to his words ; 
says he, * Think again, my dear Sally. I’ve a four-roomed 
house, and furniture conformable ; and eighty pound a year. 
You may never have such a chance again.’ There were truth 
enough in that, but it was not pretty in the man to say it ; 
and it put me up a bit. ‘ As for that, neither you nor I can 
tell, Master Dixon. You’re not the first chap as I’ve had 
down on his knees afore me, axing me to marry him (you see 
I were thinking of John Eawson, only I thought there were 
no need to say he were on all-fours — it were truth he were 
on his knees, you know), and maybe you’ll not be the last. 
Anyhow, I’ve no wish to change my condition just now.’ 

‘ I’ll wait till Christmas,’ says he. ‘ I’ve a pig as will be ready 
for killing then, so I must get married before that.’ Well 
now ! would you believe it ? the pig was a temptation. I’d a 
receipt for curing hams, as Miss Faith would never let me 
try, saying the old way were good enough. However, I 
resisted. Says I, very stem, because I felt I’d been wavering, 

‘ Master Dixon, once for all, pig or no pig, I’ll not marry you. 
And if you’ll take my advice, you’ll get up off your knees. 
The flags is but damp yet, and it would be an awkward thing 
to have rheumatiz just before winter.’ With that he got up, 
stiff enough. He looked as sulky a chap as ever I clapped 
eyes on. And as he were so black and cross, I thought I’d 
done well (whatever came of the pig) to say ‘ No ’ to him. 

‘ You may live to repent this,’ says he, very red. ‘ But I’ll 
not be hard upon ye, I’ll give you another chance. I’ll let you 
have the night to think about it, and I’ll just call in to hear 
your second thoughts, after chapel, to-morrow.’ Well now ! 

167 


Ruth 

did ever you hear the like ! But that is the way with all of 
them men, thinking so much of theirselves, and that it’s but 
ask and have. They’ve never had me, though ; and I shall 
be sixty-one next Martinmas, so there’s not much time left 
for them to try me, I reckon. Well ! when Jeremiah said 
that he put me up more than ever, and I says, ‘ My first 
thoughts, second thoughts, and third thoughts is all one and 
the same ; you’ve but tempted me once, and that was when 
you spoke of your pig. But of yoursel’ you’re nothing to 
boast on, and so I’ll bid you good night, and I’ll keep my 
manners, or else, if I told the truth, I should say it had been 
a great loss of time listening to you. But I’ll be civil — so 
good night.’ He never said a word, but went off as black 
as thunder, slamming the door after him. The master called 
me in to prayers, but I can’t say I could put my mind to 
them, for my heart was beating so. However, it was a com- 
fort to have had an offer of holy matrimony ; and though it 
flustered me, it made me think more of myself. In the night, 
I began to wonder if I’d not been cruel and hard to him. 
You see, I were feverish-like ; and the old song of Barbary 
Allen would keep running in my head, and I thought I were 
Barbary, and he were young Jemmy Gray, and that maybe 
he’d die for love of me ; and I pictured him to mysel’, lying 
on his death-bed, with his face turned to the wall, * wi’ 
deadly sorrow sighing,’ and I could ha’ pinched mysel’ for 
having been so like cruel Barbary Allen. And when I got 
up next day, I found it hard to think on the real Jerry Dixon 
I had seen the night before, apart from the sad and sorrow- 
ful Jerry I thought on a-dying, when I were between sleeping 
and waking. And for many a day I turned sick, when I 
heard the passing bell, for I thought it were the bell loud- 
knelling which were to break my heart wi’ a sense of what 
I’d missed in saying ‘ No ’ to Jerry, and so killing him with 
cruelty. But in less than a three week, I heard parish bells 
a-ringing merrily for a wedding ; and in the course of the 
morning, some one says to me, ‘ Hark ! how the bells is 
ringing for Jerry Dixon’s wedding ! ’ And, all on a sudden, 

168 


Sally tells of her Sweethearts 

he changed back again from a heart-broken young fellow, 
like Jemmy Gray, into a stout, middle-aged man, ruddy- 
complexioned, with a wart on his left cheek like life ! ” 

Sally waited for some exclamation at the conclusion of 
her tale ; but receiving none, she stepped softly to the bed- 
side, and there lay Ruth, peaceful as death, with her baby on 
her breast. 

“ I thought I’d lost some of my gifts if I could not talk 
a body to sleep,” said Sally, in a satisfied and self-complacent 
tone. 

Youth is strong and powerful, and makes a hard battle 
against sorrow. So Ruth strove and strengthened, and her 
baby flourished accordingly ; and before the little celandines 
were out on the hedge-banks, or the white violets had sent 
forth their fragrance from the border under the south wall of 
Miss Benson’s small garden, Ruth was able to carry her baby 
into that sheltered place on sunny days. 

She often wished to thank Mr. Benson and his sister, 
but she did not know how to tell the deep gratitude she 
felt, and therefore she was silent. But they understood 
her silence well. One day, as she watched her sleeping 
child, she spoke to Miss Benson, with whom she happened 
to be alone. 

“ Do you know of any cottage where the people are 
clean, and where they would not mind taking me in ? ” 
asked she. 

“ Taking you in ! What do you mean ? ” said Miss 
Benson, dropping her knitting, in order to observe Ruth more 
closely. 

“ I mean,” said Ruth, “ where I might lodge with my 
baby — any very poor place would do, only it must be clean, 
or he might be ill.” 

“ And what in the world do you want to go and lodge in 
a cottage for ? ” said Miss Benson indignantly. 

Ruth did not lift up her eyes, but she spoke with a firm- 
ness which showed that she had considered the subject. 

“ I think I could make dresses. I know I did not learn 
169 


Ruth 

as much as I might, but perhaps I might do for servants and 
people who are not particular.” 

“ Servants are as particular as any one,” said Miss 
Benson, glad to lay hold of the first objection that she 
could. 

“ Well ! somebody who would be patient with me,” said 
Ruth. 

“ Nobody is patient over an ill-fitting gown,” put in Miss 
Benson. “ There’s the stuff spoilt, and what not ! ” 

“ Perhaps I could find plain work to do,” said Ruth, very 
meekly. “ That I can do very well ; mamma taught me, and 
I liked to learn from her. If you would be so good, Miss 
Benson, you might tell people I could do plain work very 
neatly, and punctually, and cheaply.” 

“You’d get sixpence a day, perhaps,” said Miss Benson, 
“ and who would take care of baby, I should like to know ? 
Prettily he’d be neglected, would not he ? Why, he’d have 
the croup and the typhus fever in no time, and be burnt to 
ashes after.” 

“ I have thought of all. Look how he sleeps ! Hush, 
darling ; ” for just at this point he began to cry, and to show 
his determination to be awake, as if in contradiction to his 
mother’s words. Ruth took him up, and carried him about 
the room while she went on speaking. 

“Yes, just now I know he will not sleep ; but very often 
he will, and in the night he always does.” 

“ And so you’d work in the night and kill yourself, and 
leave your poor baby an orphan. Ruth ! I’m ashamed of 
you. Now, brother ” (Mr. Benson had just come in), “ is 
not this too bad of Ruth ? here she is planning to go away 
and leave us, just as we — as I, at least — have grown so fond 
of baby, and he’s beginning to know me.” 

“ Where were you thinking of going to, Ruth ? ” inter- 
rupted Mr. Benson, with mild surprise. 

“ Anywhere to be near you and Miss Benson ; in any 
poor cottage where I might lodge very cheaply, and earn my 
livelihood by taking in plain sewing, and perhaps a little 

170 


Sally tells of her Sweethearts 

dressmaking ; and where I could come and see you and dear 
Miss Benson sometimes and bring baby.” 

“ If be was not dead before then of some fever, or burn, 
or scald, poor neglected child, or you had not worked your- 
self to death with never sleeping,” said Miss Benson. 

Mr. Benson thought a minute or two, and then he spoke 
to Ruth — 

“ Whatever you may do when this little fellow is a year 
old, and able to dispense with some of a mother’s care, let 
me beg you, Ruth, as a favour to me — as a still greater favour 
to my sister, is it not, Faith ? ” 

“ Yes ; you may put it so if you like.” 

“ To stay with us,” continued he, “ till then. When baby 
is twelve months old, we’ll talk about it again, and very 
likely before then some opening may be shown us. Never 
fear leading an idle life, Ruth. We’ll treat you as a daughter, 
and set you all the household tasks ; and it is not for your 
sake that we ask you to stay, but for this little dumb helpless 
child’s : and it is not for our sake that you must stay, but 
for his.” 

Ruth was sobbing. 

“ I do not deserve your kindness,” said she, in a broken 
voice ; “ I do not deserve it.” 

Her tears fell fast and soft like summer rain, but no 
further word was spoken. Mr. Benson quietly passed on to 
make the inquiry for which he had entered the room. 

But when there was nothing to decide upon, and no 
necessity for entering upon any new course of action, Ruth’s 
mind relaxed from its strung-up state. She fell into trains 
of reverie, and mournful regretful recollections which rendered 
her languid and tearful. This was noticed both by Miss 
Benson and Sally, and as each had kind sympathies, and 
felt depressed when they saw any one near them depressed, 
and as each, without much reasoning on the cause or reason 
for such depression, felt irritated at the uncomfortable state 
into which they themselves were thrown, they both resolved 
to speak to Ruth on the next fitting occasion. 

171 


Ruth 

Accordingly, one afternoon — the morning of that day had 
been spent by Ruth in house-work, for she had insisted on 
Mr. Benson’s words, and had taken Miss Benson’s share of 
the more active and fatiguing household duties, but she went 
through them heavily, and as if her heart was far away — in 
the afternoon when she was nursing her child, Sally, on 
coming into the back parlour, found her there alone, and 
easily detected the fact that she was crying. 

“ Where’s Miss Benson ? ” asked Sally gruffly. 

“ Gone out with Mr. Benson,” answered Ruth, with an 
absent sadness in her voice and manner. Her tears, scarce 
checked while she spoke, began to fall afresh ; and as Sally 
stood and gazed she saw the babe look back in his mother’s 
face, and his little lip begin to quiver, and his open blue eye 
to grow overclouded, as with some mysterious sympathy 
with the sorrowful face bent over him. Sally took him 
briskly from his mother’s arms ; Ruth looked up in grave 
surprise, for in truth she had forgotten Sally’s presence, and 
the suddenness of the motion startled her. 

“ My bonny boy ! are they letting the salt tears drop on 
thy sweet face before thou’rt weaned ! Little somebody 
knows how to be a mother — I could make a better 
myself. ‘ Dance, thumbkin, dance — dance, ye merry men 
every one.’ Ay, that’s it ! smile, my pretty. Any one but 
a child like thee,” continued she, turning to Ruth, “ would 
have known better than to bring ill-luck on thy babby by 
letting tears fall on its face before it was weaned. But thou’rt 
not fit to have a babby, and so I’ve said many a time. I’ve 
a great mind to buy thee a doll, and take thy babby mysel’.” 

Sally did not look at Ruth, for she was too much engaged 
in amusing the baby with the tassel of the string to the 
window-blind, or else she would have seen the dignity which 
the mother’s soul put into Ruth at that moment. Sally was 
quelled into silence by the gentle composure, the self-com- 
mand over her passionate sorrow, which gave to Ruth an 
unconscious grandeur of demeanour as she came up to the 
old servant. 


172 


Sally tells os; her Sweethearts 

“ Give him back to me, please. I did not know it brought 
ill-luck, or if my heart broke I would not have let a tear 
drop on his face— I never will again. Thank you, Sally,” 
as the servant relinquished him to her who came in the 
name of a mother. Sally watched Ruth’s grave, sweet 
smile, as she followed up Sally’s play with the tassel, and 
imitated, with all the docility inspired by love, every move- 
ment and sound which had amused, her babe. 

“ Thou’lt be a mother, after all,” said Sally, with a kind of 
admiration of the control which Ruth was exercising over 
herself. “ But why talk of thy heart breaking ? I don’t 
question thee about what’s past and gone ; but now thou’rt 
wanting for nothing, nor thy child either ; the time to come 
is the Lord’s and in His hands ; and yet thou goest about 
a-sighing and a-moaning in a way that I can’t stand or 
thole.” 

“ What do I do wrong? ” said Ruth; “I try to do all 
I can.” 

“Yes, in a way,” said Sally, puzzled to know how to 
describe her meaning. “ Thou dost it — but there’s a right 
and a wrong way of setting about everything — and to my 
thinking, the right way is to take a thing up heartily, if it is 
only making a bed. Why ! dear ah me, making a bed may 
be done after a Christian fashion, I take it, or else what’s 
to come of such as me in heaven, who’ve had little enough 
time on earth for clapping ourselves down on our knees for 
set prayers ? When I was a girl, and wretched enough 
about Master Thurstan, and the crook on his back which 
came of the fall I gave him, I took to praying and sighing, 
and giving up the world ; and I thought it were wicked to 
care for the flesh, so I made heavy puddings, and was care- 
less about dinner and the rooms, and thought I was doing 
my duty, though I did call myself a miserable sinner. But 
one night, the old missus (Master Thurstan’s mother) came 
in, and sat down by me, as I was a-scolding myself, without 
thinking of what I was saying ; and, says she, ‘ Sally ! what 
are you blaming yourself about, and groaning over? We 

173 


Ruth 

hear you in the parlour every night, and it makes my heart 
ache.’ ‘ Oh, ma’am,’ says I, * I’m a miserable sinner, and 
I’m travailing in the new birth.’ ‘ Was that the reason,’ 
says she, ‘ why the pudding was so heavy to-day ? ’ ‘ Oh, 

ma’am, ma’am,’ said I, ‘ if you would not think of the things 
of the flesh, but trouble yourself about your immortal soul.’ 
And I sat a- shaking my head to think about her soul. 
‘ But,’ says she, in her sweet dropping voice, ‘ I do try 
to think of my soul every hour of the day, if by that you 
mean trying to do the will of God, but we’ll talk now about 
the pudding ; Master Thurstan could not eat it, and I know 
you’ll be sorry for that.’ Well ! I was sorry, but I didn’t 
choose to say so, as she seemed to expect me ; so says I, 
‘ It’s a pity to see children brought up to care for things of 
the flesh ; ’ and then I could have bitten my tongue out, for 
the missus looked so grave, and I thought of my darling 
little lad pining for want of his food. At last, says she, 
‘ Sally, do you think God has put us into the world just to 
be selfish, and do nothing but see after our own souls ? or 
to help one another with heart and hand, as Christ did to 
all who wanted help ? ’ I was silent, for, you see, she 
puzzled me. So she went on, ‘ What is that beautiful 
answer in your Church catechism, Sally ? ’ I were pleased 
to hear a Dissenter, as I did not think would have done it, 
speak so knowledgeably about the catechism, and she went 
on : ‘ “ to do my duty in that station of life unto which it 
shall please God to call me ; ” well, your station is a servant 
and it is as honourable as a king’s, if you look at it right ; 
you are to help and serve others in one way, just as a king 
is to help others in another. Now what way are you to 
help and serve, or to do your duty, in that station of life 
unto which it has pleased God to call you ? Did it answer 
God’s purpose, and serve Him, when the food was unfit for 
a child to eat, and unwholesome for any one ? ’ Well ! I 
would not give it up, I was so pig-headed about my soul; 
so says I, ‘ I wish folks would be content with locusts and 
wild honey, and leave other folks in peace to work out their 

174 


Sally tells of her Sweethearts 

salvation ; ’ and I groaned out pretty loud to think of 
missus’s soul. I often think since she smiled a bit at me ; 
but she said, ‘ Well, Sally, to-morrow, you shall have time 
to work out your salvation ; but as we have no locusts in 
England, and I don’t think they’d agree with Master Thur- 
stan if we had, I will come and make the pudding ; but 
I shall try and do it well, not only for him to like it, but 
because everything may be done in a right way or a wrong ; 
the right way is to do it as well as we can, as in God’s 
sight ; the wrong is to do it in a self-seeking spirit, which 
either leads us to neglect it to follow out some device of our 
own for our own ends, or to give up too much time and 
thought to it both before and after the doing.’ Well ! I 
thought of old missus’s words this morning, when I saw 
you making the beds. You sighed so, you could not half 
shake the pillows ; your heart was not in your work ; and 
yet it was the duty God had set you, I reckon ; I know it’s 
not the work parsons preach about ; though I don’t think 
they go so far off the mark when they read, ‘whatsoever 
thy hand findeth to do, that do with all thy might.’ Just 
try for a day to think of all the odd jobs as to be done well 
and truly as in God’s sight, not just slurred over anyhow, 
and you’ll go through them twice as cheerfully, and have no 
thought to spare for sighing or crying.” 

Sally bustled off to set on the kettle for tea, and felt half 
ashamed, in the quiet of the kitchen, to think of the oration 
she had made in the parlour. But she saw with much 
satisfaction, that henceforward Ruth nursed her boy with 
a vigour and cheerfulness that were reflected back from 
him; and the household work was no longer performed 
with a languid indifference, as if life and duty were dis- 
tasteful. Miss Benson had her share in this improvement, 
though Sally placidly took all the credit to herself. One 
day as she and Ruth sat together, Miss Benson spoke of the 
child, and thence went on to talk about her own childhood. 
By degrees they spoke of education, and the book-learning 
that forms one part of it; and the result was that Ruth 

175 


Ruth 

determined to get np early all through the bright summer 
mornings, to acquire the knowledge hereafter to be given to 
her child. Her mind was uncultivated, her reading scant ; 
beyond the mere mechanical arts of education she knew 
nothing; but she had a refined taste, and excellent sense 
and judgment to separate the true from the false. With 
these qualities, she set to work under Mr. Benson’s direc- 
tions. She read in the early morning the books that he 
marked out ; she trained herself with strict perseverance to 
do all thoroughly ; she did not attempt to acquire any foreign 
language, although her ambition was to learn Latin, in 
order to teach it to her boy. Those summer mornings were 
happy, for she was learning neither to look backwards nor 
forwards, but to live faithfully and earnestly in the present. 
She rose while the hedge-sparrow was yet singing his reveil 
to his mate ; she dressed and opened her window, shading 
the soft-blowing air and the sunny eastern light from her 
baby. If she grew tired, she went and looked at him, and 
all her thoughts were holy prayers for him. Then she 
would gaze awhile out of the high upper window on to the 
moorlands, that swelled in waves one behind the other, in 
the grey, cool morning light. These were her occasional 
relaxations, and after them she returned with strength to 
her work. 


CHAPTER XVII 
Leonard’s christening 

In that body of Dissenters to which Mr. Benson belonged, 
it is not considered necessary to baptize infants as early as 
the ceremony can be performed; and many circumstances 
concurred to cause the solemn thanksgiving and dedication 
of the child (for so these Dissenters looked upon christen- 
ings) to be deferred until it was probably somewhere about 

176 


Leonard’s Christening 

six months old. There had been many conversations in 
the little sitting-room between the brother and sister and 
their protegee , which had consisted of questions betraying a 
thoughtful wondering kind of ignorance on the part of Ruth, 
and answers more suggestive than explanatory from Mr. 
Benson ; while Miss Benson kept up a kind of running 
commentary, always simple and often quaint, but with that 
intuition into the very heart of all things truly religious 
which is often the gift of those who seem, at first sight, to 
be only affectionate and sensible. When Mr. Benson had 
explained his own views of what a christening ought to be 
considered, and, by calling out Ruth’s latent feelings into 
pious earnestness, brought her into a right frame of mind, 
he felt that he had done what he could to make the ceremony 
more than a mere form, and to invest it, quiet, humble, and 
obscure as it must necessarily be in outward shape — mourn- 
ful and anxious as many of its antecedents had rendered 
it — with the severe grandeur of an act done in faith and 
truth. 

It was not far to carry the little one, for, as I said, the 
chapel almost adjoined the minister’s house. The whole 
procession was to have consisted of Mr. and Miss Benson, 
Ruth carrying her babe, and Sally, who felt herself, as a 
Church-of-England woman, to be condescending and kind 
in requesting leave to attend a baptism among “ them 
Dissenters ; ” but unless she had asked permission, she 
would not have been desired to attend, so careful was the 
habit of her master and mistress that she should be allowed 
that freedom which they claimed for themselves. But they 
were glad she wished to go ; they liked the feeling that all 
were of one household, and that the interests of one were 
the interests of all. It produced a consequence, however, 
which they did not anticipate. Sally was full of the event 
which her presence was to sanction, and, as it were, to 
redeem from the character of being utterly schismatic ; 
she spoke about it with an air of patronage to three or four, 
and among them to some of the servants at Mr. Bradshaw’s. 

177 


N 


Ruth 

Miss Benson was rather surprised to receive a call from 
Jemima Bradshaw, on the very morning of the day on which 
little Leonard was to be baptized ; Miss Bradshaw was rosy 
and breathless with eagerness. Although the second in the 
family, she had been at school when her younger sisters had 
been christened, and she was now come, in the full warmth 
of a girl’s fancy, to ask if she might be present at the after- 
noon’s service. She had been struck with Mrs. Denbigh’s 
grace and beauty at the very first sight, when she had 
accompanied her mother to call upon the Bensons on their 
return from Wales ; and had kept up an enthusiastic interest 
in the widow only a little older than herself, whose very 
reserve and retirement but added to her unconscious power 
of enchantment. 

“ Oh, Miss Benson ! I never saw a christening ; papa 
says I may go, if you think Mr. Benson and Mrs. Denbigh 
would not dislike it ; and I will be quite quiet, and sit up 
behind the door, or anywhere ; and that sweet little baby ! 
I should so like to see him christened; is he to be called 
Leonard, did you say? After Mr. Denbigh, is it? ” 

“ No — not exactly,” said Miss Benson, rather discomfited. 

“ Was not Mr. Denbigh’s name Leonard, then ? Mamma 
thought it would be sure to be called after him, and so did I. 
But I may come to the christening, may I not, dear Miss 
Benson ? ” 

Miss Benson gave her consent with a little inward 
reluctance. Both her brother and Buth shared in this 
feeling, although no one expressed it ; and it was presently 
forgotten. 

Jemima stood grave and quiet in the old-fashioned vestry 
adjoining the chapel, as they entered with steps subdued to 
slowness. She thought Buth looked so pale and awed 
because she was left a solitary parent; but Buth came to 
the presence of God, as one who had gone astray, and 
doubted her own worthiness to be called His child; she 
came as a mother who had incurred a heavy responsibility, 
and who entreated His almighty aid to enable her to discharge 

178 


Leonard’s Christening 

it ; full of passionate, yearning love which craved for more 
faith in God, to still her distrust and fear of the future that 
might hang over her darling. When she thought of her 
boy, she sickened and trembled : but when she heard of 
God’s loving-kindness, far beyond all tender mother’s love, 
she was hushed into peace and prayer. There she stood, 
her fair pale cheek resting on her baby’s head, as he 
slumbered on her bosom ; her eyes went slanting down 
under their half-closed white lids ; but their gaze was not on 
the primitive cottagelike room, it was earnestly fixed on a 
dim mist, through which she fain would have seen the life 
that lay before her child ; but the mist was still and dense, 
too thick a veil for anxious human love to penetrate. The 
future was hid with God. 

Mr. Benson stood right under the casement window that 
was placed high up in the room ; he was almost in shade, 
except for one or two marked lights which fell on hair 
already silvery white ; his voice was always low and musical 
when he spoke to few ; it was too weak to speak so as to be 
heard by many without becoming harsh and strange ; but 
now it filled the little room with a loving sound, like the 
stock-dove’s brooding murmur over her young. He and 
Ruth forgot all in their earnestness of thought ; and when he 
said “ Let us pray,” and the little congregation knelt down, 
you might have heard the baby’s faint breathing, scarcely 
sighing out upon the stillness, so absorbed were all in the 
solemnity. But the prayer was long ; thought followed 
thought, and fear crowded upon fear, and all were to be laid 
bare before God, and His aid and counsel asked. Before 
the end, Sally had shuffled quietly out of the vestry into the 
green chapel-yard, upon which the door opened. Miss 
Benson was alive to this movement, and so full of curiosity 
as to what it might mean that she could no longer attend to 
her brother, and felt inclined to rush off and question Sally, 
the moment all was ended. Miss Bradshaw hung about the 
babe and Ruth, and begged to be allowed to carry the child 
home, but Ruth pressed him to her, as if there was no safe 

179 


Ruth 

harbour for him but in his mother’s breast. Mr. Benson 
saw her feeling, and caught Miss Bradshaw’s look of 
disappointment. 

“ Come home with us,” said he, “ and stay to tea. You. 
have never drunk tea with us since you went to school.” ! 

“ I wish I might,” said Miss Bradshaw, colouring with 
pleasure, “ But I must ask papa. May I run home and 
ask ? ” 

“ To be sure, my dear ! ” 

Jemima flew off; and fortunately her father was at 
home ; for her mother’s permission would have been deemed 
insufficient. She received many directions about her 
behaviour. 

“ Take no sugar in your tea, Jemima. I am sure the 
Bensons ought not to be able to afford sugar, with their 
means. And do not eat much ; you can have plenty at 
home on your return ; remember Mrs. Denbigh’s keep must 
cost them a great deal.” 

So Jemima returned considerably sobered, and very much 
afraid of her hunger leading her to forget Mr. Benson’s 
poverty. Meanwhile Miss Benson and Sally, acquainted 
with Mr. Benson’s invitation to Jemima, set about making 
some capital tea-cakes on which they piqued themselves. 
They both enjoyed the offices of hospitality ; and were glad 
to place some home-made tempting dainty before their 
guests. 

“ What made ye leave the chapel-vestry before my 
brother had ended ? ” inquired Miss Benson. 

“ Indeed, ma’am, I thought master had prayed so long 
he’d be drouthy. So I just slipped out to put on the kettle 
for tea.” 

Miss Benson was on the point of reprimanding her for 
thinking of anything besides the object of the prayer, when 
she remembered how she herself had been unable to attend 
after Sally’s departure for wondering what had become of 
her ; so she was silent. 

It was a disappointment to Miss Benson's kind and 
180 


Leonard’s Christening 

hospitable expectation when Jemima, as hungry as a hound, 
confined herself to one piece of the cake which her hostess 
had had such pleasure in making. And Jemima wished she 
had not a prophetic feeling all tea-time of the manner in 
which her father would inquire into the particulars of the 
meal, elevating his eyebrows at every viand named beyond 
plain bread-and-butter, and winding up with some such 
sentence as this : “ Well, I marvel how, with Benson’s 
salary, he can afford to keep such a table.” Sally could 
have told of self-denial when no one was by, when the left 
hand did not know what the right hand did, on the part of 
both her master and mistress, practised without thinking 
even to themselves that it was either a sacrifice or a virtue, 
in order to enable them to help those who were in need, or 
even to gratify Miss Benson’s kind, old-fashioned feelings 
on such occasions as the present, when a stranger came to 
the house. Her homely, affectionate pleasure in making 
others comfortable, might have shown that such little occa- 
sional extravagances were not waste, but a good work ; and 
were not to be gauged by the standard of money-spending. 
This evening her spirits were damped by Jemima’s refusal 
to eat ! Poor Jemima ! the cakes were so good, and she 
was so hungry ; but still she refused. 

While Sally was clearing away the tea-things, Miss 
Benson and Jemima accompanied Ruth upstairs, when she 
went to put little Leonard to bed. 

“ A christening is a very solemn service,” said Miss 
Bradshaw ; “ I had no idea it was so solemn. Mr. Benson 
seemed to speak as if he had a weight of care on his heart 
that God alone could relieve or lighten.” 

“ My brother feels these things very much,” said Miss 
Benson, rather wishing to cut short the conversation, for 
she had been aware of several parts in the prayer which 
she knew were suggested by the peculiarity and sadness of 
the case before him. 

“ I could not quite follow him all through,” continued 
Jemima. “What did he mean by saying, ‘This child, 

181 


Ruth 

rebuked by the world and bidden to stand apart, Thou wilt 
not rebuke, but wilt suffer it to come to Thee and be blessed 
with Thine almighty blessing * ? Why is this little darling 
to be rebuked ? I do not think I remember the exact words, 
but he said something like that.” 

“ My dear ! your gown is dripping wet ! it must have 
dipped into the tub ; let me wring it out.” 

“ Oh, thank you ! Never mind my gown ! ” said Jemima 
hastily, and wanting to return to her question ; but just then 
she caught the sight of tears falling fast down the cheeks of 
the silent Euth as she bent over her child, crowing and 
splashing away in his tub. With a sudden consciousness 
that unwittingly she had touched on some painful chord, 
Jemima rushed into another subject, and was eagerly 
seconded by Miss Benson. The circumstance seemed to 
die away, and leave no trace ; but in after years it rose, vivid 
and significant, before Jemima’s memory. At present it 
was enough for her, if Mrs. Denbigh would let her serve her 
in every possible way. Her admiration for beauty was keen, 
and little indulged at home ; and Euth was very beautiful in 
her quiet mournfulness; her mean and homely dress left 
herself only the more open to admiration, for she gave it 
a charm by her unconscious wearing of it that made it seem 
like the drapery of an old Greek statue — subordinate to the 
figure it covered, yet imbued by it with an unspeakable 
grace. Then the .pretended circumstances of her life were 
such as to catch the imagination of a young romantic girl. 
Altogether, Jemima could have kissed her hand and pro- 
fessed herself Euth’s slave. She moved away all the articles 
used at this little coucher ; she folded up Leonard’s day- 
clothes; she felt only too much honoured when Euth 
trusted him to her for a few minutes — only too amply 
rewarded when Euth thanked her with a grave, sweet smile, 
and a grateful look of her loving eyes. 

When Jemima had gone away with the servant who was 
sent to fetch her, there was a little chorus of praise. 

“ She’s a warm-hearted girl,” said Miss Benson. “ She 
182 


Leonard’s Christening 

remembers all the old days before she went to school. She 
is worth two of Mr. Richard. They’re each of them just the 
same as they were when they were children, when they 
broke that window in the chapel, and he ran away home, 
and she came knocking at our door with a single knock, just 
like a beggar’s, and I went to see who it was, and was quite 
startled to see her round, brown honest face looking up at 
me, half-frightened, and telling me what she had done, and 
offering me the money in her savings bank to pay for it. 
We never should have heard of Master Richard’s share in 
the business if it had not been for Sally.” 

“ But remember,” said Mr. Benson, “ how strict Mr. 
Bradshaw has always been with his children. It is no 
wonder if poor Richard was a coward in those days.” 

“ He is now, or I’m much mistaken,” answered Miss 
Benson. “ And Mr. Bradshaw was just as strict with 
Jemima, and she’s no coward. But I’ve no faith in Richard. 
He has a look about him that I don’t like. And when Mr. 
Bradshaw was away on business in Holland last year, for 
those months my young gentleman did not come half as 
regularly to chapel, and I always believe that story of his 
being seen out with the hounds at Smithiles.” 

“ Those are neither of them great offences in a young 
man of twenty,” said Mr. Benson, smiling. 

“ No ! I don’t mind them in themselves ; but when he 
could change back so easily to being regular and mim when 
his father came home, I don’t like that.” 

“ Leonard shall never be afraid of me,” said Ruth, 
following her own train of thought. “ I will be his friend 
from the very first ; and I will try and learn how to be a 
wise friend, and you will teach me ; won’t you, sir ? ” 

“ What made you wish to call him Leonard, Ruth ? ” 
asked Miss Benson. 

“ It was my mother’s father’s name ; and she used to tell 
me about him and his goodness, and I thought if Leonard 
could be like him ” 

“ Do you remember the discussion there was about Miss 

183 


Ruth 

Bradshaw’s name, Thurstan ? Her father wanting her to be 
called Hephzibah, but insisting that she was to have a 
Scripture name at any rate; and Mrs. Bradshaw wanting 
her to be Juliana, after some novel she had read not long 
before ; and at last Jemima was fixed upon, because it would 
do either for a Scripture name or a name for a heroine out of 
a book.” 

“I did not know Jemima was a Scripture name,” said 
Ruth. 

“ Oh yes, it is. One of Job’s daughters ; Jemima, Kezia, 
and Keren- Happuch. There are a good many Jemimas in 
the world, and some Kezias, but I never heard of a Keren- 
-Happuch; and yet we know just as much of one as of 
another. People really like a pretty name, whether in 
Scripture or out of it.” 

“ When there is no particular association with the name,” 
said Mr. Benson. 

“ Now, I was called Faith after the cardinal virtue ; and 
I like my name, though many people would think it too 
Puritan; that was according to our gentle mother’s pious 
desire. And Thurstan was called by his name because my 
father wished it ; for, although he was what people called 
a radical and a democrat in his ways of talking and thinking, 
he was very proud in his heart of being descended from 
some old Sir Thurstan, who figured away in the French 
wars.” 

“The difference between theory and practice, thinking 
and being,” put in Mr. Benson, who was in a mood for 
allowing himself a little social enjoyment. He leaned back 
in his chair, with his eyes looking at, but not seeing, the 
ceiling. Miss Benson was clicking away with her eternal 
knitting-needles, looking at her brother, and seeing him too. 
Ruth was arranging her child’s clothes against the morrow. 
It was but their usual way of spending an evening; the 
variety was given by the different tone which the conver- 
sation assumed on the different nights. Yet, somehow, the 
peacefulness of the time, the window open into the little 

184 


Leonard’s Christening 

garden, the scents that came stealing in, and the clear 
summer heaven above, made the time be remembered as a 
happy festival by Ruth. Even Sally seemed more placid 
than usual when she came in to prayers ; and she and Miss 
Benson followed Ruth to her bedroom, to look at the 
beautiful sleeping Leonard. 

“ God bless him ! ” said Miss Benson, stooping down to 
kiss his little dimpled hand, which lay outside the coverlet, 
tossed abroad in the heat of the evening. 

“ Now, don’t get up too early, Ruth ! Injuring your 
health will be short-sighted wisdom and poor economy. 
Good night ! ” 

“ Good night, dear Miss Benson. Good night, Sally.” 
When Ruth had shut her door, she went again to the bed, 
and looked at her boy till her eyes filled with tears. 

“ God bless thee, darling ! I only ask to be one of His 
instruments, and not thrown aside as useless — or worse than 
useless.” 

So ended the day of Leonard’s christening. 

Mr. Benson had sometimes taught the children of 
different people as an especial favour, when requested by 
them. But then his pupils were only children, and by their 
progress he was little prepared for Ruth’s. She had had 
early teaching, of that kind which need never be unlearnt, 
from her mother ; enough to unfold many of her powers ; 
they had remained inactive now for several years, but had 
grown strong in the dark and quiet time. Her tutor was 
surprised at the bounds by which she surmounted obstacles, 
the quick perception and ready adaptation of truths and 
first principles, and her immediate sense of the fitness of 
things. Her delight in what was strong and beautiful 
called out her master’s sympathy; but, most of all, he 
admired the complete unconsciousness of uncommon power, 
or unusual progress. It was less of a wonder than he 
considered it to be, it is true, for she never thought of 
comparing what she was now with her former self, much 
less with another. Indeed, she did not think of herself at 

185 


Ruth 

all, but of her boy, and what she must learn in order to 
teach him to be and to do as suited her hope and her prayer. 
If any one’s devotion could have flattered her into self- 
consciousness, it was Jemima’s. Mr. Bradshaw never 
dreamed that his daughter could feel herself inferior to the 
minister’s protegee , but so it was ; and no knight-errant of old 
could consider himself more honoured by his ladye’s com- 
mands than did Jemima, if Buth allowed her to do anything 
for her, or for her boy. Ruth loved her heartily, even while 
she was rather annoyed at the open expression Jemima used 
of admiration. 

“ Please, I really would rather not be told if people do 
think me pretty.” 

“ But it was not merely beautiful ; it was sweet-looking 
and good, Mrs. Postlethwaite called you,” replied Jemima. 

“ All the more I would rather not hear it. I may be 
pretty, but I know I am not good. Besides, I don’t think 
we ought to hear what is said of us behind our backs.” 

Ruth spoke so gravely, that Jemima feared lest she was 
displeased. 

“ Dear Mrs. Denbigh, I never will admire or praise you 
again. Only let me love you.” 

“ And let me love you ! ” said Ruth, with a tender kiss. 

Jemima would not have been allowed to come so fre- 
quently if Mr. Bradshaw had not been possessed with the 
idea of patronising Ruth. If the latter had chosen, she 
might have gone dressed from head to foot in the presents 
which he wished to make her, but she refused them con- 
stantly; occasionally to Miss Benson’s great annoyance. 
But if he could not load her with gifts, he could show his 
approbation by asking her to his house; and after some 
deliberation, she consented to accompany Mr. and Miss 
Benson there. The house was square and massy-looking, 
with a great deal of drab-colour about the furniture. Mrs. 
Bradshaw, in her lackadaisical, sweet-tempered way, seconded 
her husband in his desire of being kind to Ruth ; and as she 
cherished privately a great taste for what was beautiful or 

186 


Leonard’s Christening 

interesting, as opposed to her husband’s love of the purely 
useful, this taste of hers had rarely had so healthy and true 
a mode of gratification as when she watched Ruth’s move- 
ments about the room, which seemed in its unobtrusiveness 
and poverty of colour to receive the requisite ornament of 
light and splendour from Ruth’s presence. Mrs. Bradshaw 
sighed, and wished she had a daughter as lovely, about 
whom to weave a romance; for castle-building, after the 
manner of the Minerva Press, was the outlet by which she 
escaped from the pressure of her prosaic life, as Mr. Brad- 
shaw’s wife. Her perception was only of external beauty, 
and she was not always alive to that, or she might have seen 
how a warm, affectionate, ardent nature, free from all envy 
or carking care of self, gave an unspeakable charm to her 
plain, bright-faced daughter Jemima, whose dark eyes kept 
challenging admiration for her friend. The first evening 
spent at Mr. Bradshaw’s passed like many succeeding visits 
there. There was tea, the equipage for which was as hand- 
some and as ugly as money could purchase. Then the ladies 
produced their sewing, while Mr. Bradshaw stood before the 
fire, and gave the assembled party the benefit of his opinions 
on many subjects. The opinions were as good and excellent 
as the opinions of any man can be who sees one side of a 
case very strongly, and almost ignores the other. They 
coincided in many points with those held by Mr. Benson, 
but he once or twice interposed with a plea for those who 
might differ ; and then he was heard by Mr. Bradshaw with 
a kind of evident and indulgent pity, such as one feels for a 
child who unwittingly talks nonsense. By-and-by Mrs. Brad- 
shaw and Miss Benson fell into one tete-a-tete , and Ruth and 
Jemima into another. Two well-behaved but unnaturally 
quiet children were sent to bed early in the evening, in an 
authoritative voice, by their father, because one of them had 
spoken too loud while he was enlarging on an alteration in the 
tariff. Just before the supper- tray was brought in, a gentle- 
man was announced whom Ruth had never previously seen, 
but who appeared well known to the rest of the party. It was 

187 


Ruth 

Mr. Farquhar, Mr. Bradshaw’s partner ; he had been on the 
Continent for the last year, and had only recently returned. 
He seemed perfectly at home, but spoke little. He leaned 
back in his chair, screwed up his eyes, and watched every- 
body ; yet there was nothing unpleasant or impertinent in his 
keenness of observation. Ruth wondered to hear him con- 
tradict Mr. Bradshaw, and almost expected some rebuff ; but 
Mr. Bradshaw, if he did not yield the point, admitted, for the 
first time that evening, that it was possible something might 
be said on the other side. Mr. Farquhar differed also from 
Mr. Benson, but it was in a more respectful manner than 
Mr. Bradshaw had done. For these reasons, although Mr. 
Farquhar had never spoken to Ruth, she came away with 
the impression that he was a man to be respected and 
perhaps liked. 

Sally would have thought herself mightily aggrieved if, 
on their return, she had not heard some account of the 
evening. As soon as Miss Benson came in, the old servant 
began — 

“ Well, and who was there ? and what did they give you 
for supper ? ” 

“ Only Mr. Farquhar besides ourselves : and sand- 
wiches, sponge-cake, and wine : there was no occasion for 
anything more,” replied Miss Benson, who was tired and 
preparing to go upstairs. 

“ Mr. Farquhar ! Why, they do say he’s thinking of 
Miss Jemima ! ” 

“ Nonsense, Sally ! why, he’s old enough to be her 
father ! ” said Miss Benson, halfway up the first flight. 

“ There’s no need for it to be called nonsense, though 
he may be ten year older,” muttered Sally, retreating 
towards the kitchen. “ Bradshaw’s Betsy knows what she’s 
about, and wouldn’t have said it for nothing.” 

Ruth wondered a little about it. She loved Jemima well 
enough to be interested in what related to her; but, after 
thinking for a few minutes, she decided that such a marriage 
was, and would ever be, very unlikely. 

188 


Ruth becomes a Governess 


CHAPTEE XVIII 

RUTH BECOMES A GOVERNESS IN MR. BRADSHAW’S FAMILY 

One afternoon, not long after this, Mr. and Miss Benson 
^et off to call upon a farmer, who attended the chapel, but 
lived at some distance from the town. They intended to 
stay to tea if they were invited, and Ruth and Sally were left 
to spend a long afternoon together. At first, Sally was 
busy in her kitchen, and Ruth employed herself in carrying 
her baby out into the garden. It was now nearly a year 
since she came to the Bensons’ ; it seemed like yesterday, 
and yet as if a lifetime had gone between. The flowers were 
budding now, that were all in bloom when she came down, 
on the first autumnal morning, into the sunny parlour. The 
yellow jessamine that was then a tender plant, had now 
taken firm root in the soil, and was sending out strong 
shoots ; the wall-flowers, which Miss Benson had sown on 
the wall a day or two after her arrival, were scenting the 
air with their fragrant flowers. Ruth knew every plant now ; 
it seemed as though she had always lived here, and always 
known the inhabitants of the house. She heard Sally singing 
her accustomed song in the kitchen, a song she never varied, 
over her afternoon’s work. It began — 

“ As I was going to Derby, sir, 

Upon a market-day.” 

And, if music is a necessary element in a song, perhaps I had 
better call it by some other name. 

But the strange change was in Ruth herself. She was 
conscious of it, though she could not define it, and did not 
dwell upon it. Life had become significant and full of duty 
to her. She delighted in the exercise of her intellectual 
powers, and liked the idea of the infinite amount of which 
she was ignorant ; for it was a grand pleasure to learn, — to 

189 


Ruth 

crave, and be satisfied. She strove to forget what had gone 
before this last twelve months. She shuddered up from 
contemplating it; it was like a bad, unholy dream. And 
yet, there was a strange yearning kind of love for the father 
of the child whom she pressed to her heart, which came, and 
she could not bid it begone as sinful, it was so pure and 
natural, even when thinking of it as in the sight of God. 
Little Leonard cooed to the flowers, and stretched after their 
bright colours ; and Ruth laid him on the dry turf, and pelted 
him with the gay petals. He chinked and crowed with 
laughing delight, and clutched at her cap, and pulled it off. 
Her short rich curls were golden-brown in the slanting sun- 
light, and by their very shortness made her more childlike. 
She hardly seemed as if she could be the mother of the 
noble babe over whom she knelt, now snatching kisses, now 
matching his cheek with rose-leaves. All at once, the bells 
of the old church struck the hour, and far away, high up 
in the air, began slowly to play the old tune of “ Life, let us 
cherish ; ” they had played it for years — for the life of man — 
and it always sounded fresh, and strange, and aerial. Ruth 
was still in a moment, she knew not why; and the tears 
came into her eyes as she listened. When it was ended, she 
kissed her baby, and bade God bless him. 

Just then Sally came out, dressed for the evening, with a 
leisurely look about her. She had done her work, and she 
and Euth were to drink tea together in the exquisitely clean 
kitchen ; but while the kettle was boiling, she came out to 
enjoy the flowers. She gathered a piece of southernwood, 
and stuffed it up her nose, by way of smelling it. 

“ Whatten you call this in your country ? ” asked she. 

“ Old-man,” replied Ruth. 

“ We call it here lad’s-love. It and peppermint drops 
always reminds me of going to church in the country. 
Here ! I’ll get you a black-currant leaf to put in the teapot. 
It gives it a flavour. We had bees once against this wall ; 
but when missus died, we forgot to tell ’em and put ’em in 
mourning, and, in course, they swarmed away without our 

190 


Ruth becomes a Governess 

knowing, and the next winter came a hard frost, and they 
died. Now, I dare say, the water will be boiling ; and it’s 
time for little master there to come in, for the dew is 
falling. See, all the daisies is shutting themselves up.” 

Sally was most gracious as a hostess. She quite put on 
her company manners to receive Euth in the kitchen. They 
laid Leonard to sleep on the sofa ; in the parlour, that they 
might hear him the more easily, and then they sat quietly 
down to their sewing by the bright kitchen fire. Sally was, 
as usual, the talker; and, as usual, the subject was the 
family of whom for so many years she had formed a part. 

“ Ay ! things was different when I was a girl,” quoth 
she. “ Eggs was thirty for a shilling, and butter only sixpence 
a pound. My wage when I came here was but three pound, 
and I did on it, and was always clean and tidy, which is 
more than many a lass can say now who gets seven and 
eight pound a year; and tea was kept for an afternoon 
drink, and pudding was eaten afore meat in them days, and 
the upshot was, people paid their debts better ; ay, ay ! 
we’n gone backwards, and we thinken we’n gone forrards.” 

After shaking her head a little over the degeneracy of the 
times, Sally returned to a part of the subject on which she 
thought she had given Euth a wrong idea. 

“ You’ll not go for to think now that I’ve not more than 
three pound a year. I’ve a deal above that now. First of 
all, old missus gave me four pound, for she said I were 
worth it, and I thought in my heart that I were ; so I took 
it without more ado ; but after her death, Master Thurstan 
and Miss Faith took a fit of spending, and says they to me, 
one day as I carried tea in, ‘ Sally, we think your wages 
ought to be raised.’ ‘ What matter what you think ! ’ said 
I, pretty sharp, for I thought they’d ha’ shown more respect 
to missus, if they’d let things stand as they were in her 
time ; and they’d gone and moved the sofa away from the 
wall to where it stands now, already that very day. So I 
speaks up sharp, and says I, ‘ As long as I’m content, I 
think it’s no business of yours to be meddling wi’ me and 

I 9 I 


Ruth 

my money matters.’ ‘ But,’ says Miss Faith (she’s always 
the one to speak first if you’ll notice, though it’s master 
that comes in and clinches the matter with some reason 
she’d never ha’ thought of — he were always a sensible lad), 

‘ Sally, all the servants in the town have six pound and 
better, and you have as hard a place as any of ’em.’ ‘ Did you 
ever hear me grumble about my work that you talk about it 
in that way ? wait till I grumble,’ says I, ‘ but don’t meddle 
wi’ me till then.’ So I flung off in a huff ; but in the course 
of the evening, Master Thurstan came in and sat down in 
the kitchen, and he’s such winning ways he wiles one over 
to anything ; and besides, a notion had come into my head 
— now you’ll not tell,” said she, glancing round the room, 
and hitching her chair nearer to Ruth in a confidential 
manner ; Ruth promised, and Sally went on — 

“ I thought I should like to be an heiress wi’ money, and 
leave it all to Master and Miss Faith ; and I thought if I’d 
six pound a year, I could, may be, get to be an heiress ; all I 
was feared on was that some chap or other might marry me 
for my money, but I’ve managed to keep the fellows off ; so 
I looks mim and grateful, and I thanks Master Thurstan for 
his offer, and I takes the wages ; and what do you think 
I’ve done ? ” asked Sally, with an exultant air. 

“ What have you done ? ” asked Ruth. 

“ Why,” replied Sally, slowly and emphatically, “ I’ve 
saved thirty pound ! but that’s not it. I’ve getten a lawyer 
to make me a will ; that’s it, wench ! ” said she, slapping 
Ruth on the back. 

“ How did you manage it? ” asked Ruth. 

“ Ay, that was it,” said Sally; “ I thowt about it many a 
night before I hit on the right way. I was afeared the 
money might be thrown into Chancery if I didn’t make it 
all safe, and yet I could na’ ask Master Thurstan. At last, 
and at length, John Jackson, the grocer, had a nephew 
come to stay a week with him, as was ’prentice to a lawyer 
in Liverpool ; so now was my time, and here was my lawyer. 
Wait a minute ! I could tell you my story better if I had 

192 


Ruth becomes a Governess 

my will in my hand ; and I’ll scomfish you if ever you go 
for to tell.” 

She held up her hand, and threatened Euth as she left 
the kitchen to fetch the will. 

When she came back, she brought a parcel tied up in a 
blue pocket-handkerchief ; she sat down, squared her knees, 
untied the handkerchief, and displayed a small piece of 
parchment. 

“ Now, do you know what this is ? ” said she, holding it 
up. “ It’s parchment, and it’s the right stuff to make wills 
on. People gets into Chancery if they don’t make them o’ 
this stuff, and I reckon Tom Jackson thowt he’d have a 
fresh job on it if he could get it into Chancery; for the 
rascal went and wrote it on a piece of paper at first, and 
came and read it me out aloud off a piece of paper no 
better than what one writes letters upon. I were up to him ; 
and, thinks I, Come, come, my lad, I’m not a fool, though 
you may think so ; I know a paper will won’t stand, but I’ll 
let you run your rig. So I sits and I listens. And would you 
believe me, he read it out as if it were as clear a business as 
your giving me that thimble — no more ado, though it were 
thirty pound ! I could understand it mysel’ — that were no 
law for me. I wanted summat to consider about, and for 
th’ meaning to be wrapped up as I wrap up my best gown. 
So, says I, ‘ Tom ! it’s not on parchment. I mun have it on 
parchment.’ ‘ This ’ll do as well,’ says he. ‘ We’ll get it 
witnessed, and it will stand good.’ Well ! I liked the notion 
of having it witnessed, and for a while that soothed me ; but 
after a bit, I felt I should like it done according to law, and 
not plain out as anybody might ha’ done it ; I mysel’, if I 
could have written. So says I, ‘ Tom ! I mun have it on 
parchment.’ * Parchment costs money,’ says he, very grave. 

‘ Oh, oh, my lad ! are ye there ? ’ thinks I. ‘ That’s the 
reason I’m clipped of law. So says I, ‘ Tom ! I mun have 
it on parchment. I’ll pay the money and welcome. It’s 
thirty pound, and what I can lay to it. I’ll make it safe. 
It shall be on parchment, and I’ll tell thee what, lad ! 1 11 

193 o 


Ruth 

gie ye sixpence for every good law-word you put in it, 
sounding like, and not to be caught up as a person runs. 
Your master had need to be ashamed of you as a ’prentice, 
if you can’t do a thing more tradesman -like than this ! ’ 
Well ! he laughed above a bit, but I were firm, and stood to 
it. So he made it out on parchment. Now, woman, try 
and read it ! ” said she, giving it to Ruth. 

Ruth smiled, and began to read ; Sally listening with rapt 
attention. When Ruth came to the word “ testatrix,” Sally 
stopped her. 

“ That was the first sixpence,” said she. “ I thowt he 
was going to fob me off again wi’ plain language ; but when 
that word came, I out wi’ my sixpence, and gave it to him 
on the spot. Now, go on.” 

Presently Ruth read “ accruing.” 

“ That was the second sixpence. Four sixpences it were 
in all, besides six-and-eightpence as we bargained at first, 
and three- and-fourpence parchment. There ! that’s what I 
call a will ; witnessed, according to law, and all. Master 
Thurstan will be prettily taken in when I die, and he finds 
all his extra wage left back to him. But it will teach him 
it’s not so easy as he thinks for, to make a woman give up 
her way.” 

The time was now drawing near when little Leonard 
might be weaned — the time appointed by all three for Ruth 
to endeavour to support herself in some way more or less 
independent of Mr. and Miss Benson. This prospect dwelt 
much in all of their minds, and was in each shaded with 
some degree of perplexity ; but they none of them spoke of 
it, for fear of accelerating the event. If they had felt clear 
and determined as to the best course to be pursued, they 
were none of them deficient in courage to commence upon 
that course at once. Miss Benson would, perhaps, have 
objected the most to any alteration in their present daily 
mode of life; but that was because she had the habit of 
speaking out her thoughts as they arose, and she particularly 
disliked and dreaded change. Besides this, she had felt her 

194 


Ruth becomes a Governess 

heart open out, and warm towards the little helpless child, 
in a strong and powerful manner. Nature had intended her 
warm instincts to find vent in a mother’s duties ; her heart 
had yearned after children, and made her restless in her 
childless state, without her well knowing why ; but now, 
the delight she experienced in tending, nursing, and con- 
triving for the little boy, — even contriving to the point of 
sacrificing many of her cherished whims, — made her happy, 
and satisfied, and peaceful. It was more difficult to sacrifice 
her whims than her comforts ; but all had been given up 
when and where required by the sweet lordly baby, who 
reigned paramount in his very helplessness. 

From some cause or other, an exchange of ministers for 
one Sunday was to be effected with a neighbouring congrega- 
tion, and Mr. Benson went on a short absence from home. 
When he returned on Monday, he was met at the house- 
door by his sister, who had evidently been looking out for 
him for some time. She stepped out to greet him. 

“ Don’t hurry yourself, Thurstan ! all’s well ; only I 
wanted to tell you something. Don’t fidget yourself — baby 
is quite well, bless him ! It’s only good news. Come into 
your room, and let me talk a little quietly with you.” 

She drew him into his study, which was near the outer 
door, and then she took off his coat, and put his carpet-bag 
in a corner, and wheeled a chair to the fire, before she would 
begin. 

“Well, now ! to think how often things fall out just as 
we want them, Thurstan ! Have not you often wondered 
what was to be done with Ruth when the time came at 
which we promised her she should earn her living ? I am 
sure you have, because I have so often thought about it 
myself. And yet I never dared to speak out my fear, 
because that seemed giving it a shape. And now Mr. 
Bradshaw has put all to rights. He invited Mr. Jackson to 
dinner yesterday, just as we were going into chapel ; and 
then he turned to me and asked me if I would come to tea — 
straight from afternoon chapel, because Mrs. Bradshaw 

195 


Ruth 

wanted to speak to me. He made it very clear I was not to 
bring Ruth ; and, indeed, she was only too happy to stay at 
home with baby. And so I went ; and Mrs. Bradshaw took 
me into her bedroom, and shut the doors, and said Mr. 
Bradshaw had told her, that he did not like Jemima being so 
much confined with the younger ones while they were at 
their lessons, and that he wanted some one above a nurse- 
maid to sit with them while their masters were there — some 
one who would see about their learning their lessons, and 
who would walk out with them ; a sort of nursery governess, 
I think she meant, though she did not say so ; and Mr. 
Bradshaw (for, of course, I saw his thoughts and words con- 
stantly peeping out, though he had told her to speak to me) 
believed that our Ruth would be the very person. Now, 
Thurstan, don’t look so surprised, as if she had never come 
into your head ! I am sure I saw what Mrs. Bradshaw was 
driving at, long before she came to the point ; and I could 
scarcely keep from smiling, and saying, ‘We’d jump at the 
proposal’ — long before I ought to have known anything 
about it.” • 

“ Oh, I wonder what we ought to do ! ” said Mr. Benson. 
“ Or, rather, I believe I see what we ought to do, if I durst 
but do it.” 

“ Why, what ought we to do ? ” asked his sister, in surprise. 

“ I ought to go and tell Mr. Bradshaw the whole 
story ” 

“ And get Ruth turned out of our house,” said Miss 
Benson indignantly. 

“ They can’t make us do that,” said her brother. “ I do 
not think they would try.” 

“ Yes, Mr. Bradshaw would try ; and he would blazon 
out poor Ruth’s sin, and there would not be a chance for her 
left. I know him well, Thurstan ; and why should he be 
told now, more than a year ago ? ” 

“ A year ago he did not want to put her in a situation of 
trust about his children.” 

“ And you think she’ll abuse that trust, do you ? You’ve 
196 


Ruth becomes a Governess 

lived a twelvemonth in the house with Euth, and the end of 
it is, you think she will do his children harm ! Besides, who 
encouraged Jemima to come to the house so much to see 
Euth ? Did you not say it would do them both good to see 
something of each other ? ” 

Mr. Benson sat thinking. 

“ If you had not known Euth as well as you do — if, 
during her stay with us, you had marked anything wrong, 
or forward, or deceitful, or immodest, I would say at once, 
Don't allow Mr. Bradshaw to take her into his house ; but 
still I would say, Don’t tell of her sin and sorrow to so severe 
a man — so unpitiful a judge. But here I ask you, Thurstan, 
can you or I, or Sally (quick-eyed as she is), say, that in any 
one thing we have had true, just occasion to find fault with 
Euth ? I don’t mean that she is perfect— she acts without 
thinking, her temper is sometimes warm and hasty; but 
have we any right to go and injure her prospects for life, by 
telling Mr. Bradshaw all we know of her errors — only sixteen 
when she did so wrong, and never to escape from it all her 
many years to come — to have the despair which Would arise 
from its being known, clutching her back into worse sin? 
What harm do you think she can do ? What is the risk 
to which you think you are exposing Mr. Bradshaw’s 
children ? ” She paused, out of breath, her eyes glittering 
with tears of indignation, and impatient for an answer that 
she might knock it to pieces. 

“I do not see any danger that can arise,” said he at 
length, and with slow difficulty, as if not fully convinced. 
“ I have watched Euth, and I believe she is pure and truth- 
ful ; and the very sorrow and penitence she has felt — the 
very suffering she has gone through — has given her a 
thoughtful conscientiousness beyond her age.” 

“ That and the care of her baby,” said Miss Benson, 
secretly delighted at the tone of her brother’s thoughts. 

“ Ah, Faith ! that baby you so much dreaded once, is 
turning out a blessing, you see,” said Thurstan, with a faint, 
quiet smile. 


197 


Ruth 

“ Yes ! any one might be thankful, and better too, for 
Leonard ; but how could I tell that it would be like him ? ” 

“ But to return to Ruth and Mr. Bradshaw. What did 
you say ? ” 

“ Ob ! with my feelings, of course, I was only too glad 
to accept the proposal, and so I told Mrs. Bradshaw, then ; 
and I afterwards repeated it to Mr. Bradshaw, when he asked 
me if his wife had mentioned their plans. They would 
understand that I must consult you and Ruth, before it could 
be considered as finally settled.” 

“ And have you named it to her ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Miss Benson, half afraid lest he should 
think she had been too precipitate. 

“ And what did she say? ” asked he, after a little pause 
of grave silence. 

“ At first she seemed very glad, and fell into my mood of 
planning how it should all be managed; how Sally and I 
should take care of the baby the hours that she was away at 
Mr. Bradshaw’s ; but by-and-by she became silent and 
thoughtful, and knelt down by me and hid her face in my 
lap, and shook a little as if she was crying ; and then I 
heard her speak in a very low smothered voice, for her head 
was still bent down — quite hanging down, indeed, so that I 
could not see her face, so I stooped to listen, and I heard her 
say, * Do you think I should be good enough to teach little, 
girls, Miss Benson ? ’ She said it so humbly and fearfully 
that all I thought of was how to cheer her, and I answered 
and asked her if she did not hope to be good enough to 
bring up her own darling to be a brave Christian man ? 
And she lifted up her head, and I saw her eyes looking wild 
and wet and earnest, and she said, ‘ With God’s help, that 
will I try to make my child.’ And I said then, ‘ Ruth, 
as you strive and as you pray for your own child, so you 
must strive and pray to make Mary and Elizabeth good, if 
you are trusted with them.’ And she said out quite clear, 
though her face was hidden from me once more, ‘ I will 
strive and I will pray.’ You would not have had any 

198 


After Five Years 

fears, Thurstan, if you could have heard and seen her 
last night.” 

“ 1 ha ve no fear,” said he decidedly. “ Let the plan go 
on. After a minute, he added, iC But I am glad it was so 
far arranged before I heard of it. My indecision about right 
and wrong— my perplexity as to how far we are to calculate 
consequences — grows upon me, I fear.” 

“ You look tired and weary, dear. You should blame 
your body rather than your conscience at these times.” 

“ A very dangerous doctrine.” 

The scroll of Fate was closed, and they could not foresee 
the Future ; and yet, if they could have seen it, though they 
might have shrunk fearfully at first, they would have smiled 
and thanked God when all was done and said. 


CHAPTER XIX 

AFTER FIVE YEARS 

The quiet days grew into weeks and months, and even years, 
without any event to startle the little circle into the con- 
sciousness of the lapse of time. One who had known them 
at the date of Ruth’s becoming a governess in Mr. Bradshaw’s 
family, and had been absent until the time of which I am 
now going to tell you, would have noted some changes which 
had imperceptibly come over all; but he, too, would have 
thought, that the life which had brought so little of turmoil 
and vicissitude must have been calm and tranquil, and in 
accordance with the bygone activity of the town in which 
their existence passed away. 

The alterations that he would have perceived were those 
caused by the natural progress of time. The Benson home 
was brightened into vividness by the presence of the little 

199 


Ruth 

Leonard, now a noble boy of six, large and grand in limb 
and stature, and with a face of marked beauty and intelli- 
gence. Indeed, he might have been considered by many as 
too intelligent for his years; and often the living with old 
and thoughtful people gave him, beyond most children, the 
appearance of pondering over the mysteries which meet the 
young on the threshold of life, but which fade away as 
advancing years bring us more into contact with the practical 
and tangible — fade away and vanish, until it seems to 
require the agitation of some great storm of the soul before 
we can again realise spiritual things. 

But, at times, Leonard seemed oppressed and bewildered, 
after listening intent, with grave and wondering eyes, to the 
conversation around him ; at others, the bright animal life 
shone forth radiant, and no three months’ kitten— no foal, 
suddenly tossing up its heels by the side of its sedate dam, 
and careering around the pasture in pure mad enjoyment — 
no young creature of any kind, could show more merriment 
and gladness of heart. 

“ For ever in mischief,” was Sally’s account of him at 
such times ; but it was not intentional mischief ; and Sally 
herself would have been the first to scold any one else who 
had used the same words in reference to her darling. 
Indeed, she was once nearly giving warning, because she 
thought the boy was being ill-used. The occasion was this : 
Leonard had for some time shown a strange, odd disregard of 
truth ; he invented stories, and told them with so grave a 
face, that unless there was some internal evidence of their 
incorrectness (such as describing a cow with a bonnet on) 
he was generally believed, and his statements, which were 
given with the full appearance of relating a real occurrence, 
had once or twice led to awkward results. All the three, 
whose hearts were pained by this apparent unconsciousness 
of the difference between truth and falsehold, were un- 
accustomed to children, or they would have recognised this 
as a stage through which most infants, who would have 
lively imaginations, pass; and, accordingly, there was a 

200 


After Five Years 

consultation in Mr. Benson’s study one morning. Ruth was 
there, quiet, very pale, and with compressed lips, sick at 
heart as she heard Miss Benson’s arguments for the necessity 
of whipping, in order to cure Leonard of his story-telling. 
Mr. Benson looked unhappy and uncomfortable. Education 
was but a series of experiments to them all, and they all had 
a secret dread of spoiling the noble boy, who was the darling 
of their hearts. And, perhaps, this very intensity of love 
begot an impatient, unnecessary anxiety, and made them 
resolve on sterner measures than the parent of a large 
family (where love was more spread abroad) would have 
dared to use. At any rate, the vote for whipping carried the 
day ; and even Ruth, trembling and cold, agreed that it must 
be done ; only she asked, in a meek, sad voice, if she need be 
present (Mr. Benson was to be the executioner — the scene, 
the study), and, being instantly told that she had better not, 
she went slowly and languidly up to her room, and kneeling 
down, she closed her ears, and prayed. 

Miss Benson, having carried her point, was very sorry 
for the child, and would have begged him off; but Mr. 
Benson had listened more to her arguments than now to her 
pleadings, and, only answered, “ If it is right, it shall be 
done ! ” He went into the garden, and deliberately, almost 
as if he wished to gain time, chose and cut off a little switch 
from the laburnum-tree. Then he returned through the 
kitchen, and gravely taking the awed and wondering little 
fellow by the hand, he led him silently into the study, and 
placing him before him, began an admonition on the import- 
ance of truthfulness, meaning to conclude with what he 
believed to be the moral of all punishment : “As you cannot 
remember this of yourself, I must give you a little pain to 
make you remember it. I am sorry it is necessary, and that 
you cannot recollect without my doing so.” 

But before he had reached this very proper and desirable 
conclusion, and while he was yet working his way, his heart 
aching with the terrified look of the child at the solemnly 
sad face and words of upbraiding, Sally burst in — 


201 


Ruth 

“ And what may ye be going to do with that fine switch I 
saw ye gathering, Master Thnrstan ? ” asked she, her eyes 
gleaming with anger at the answer she knew must come, if 
answer she had at all. 

“ Go away, Sally,” said Mr. Benson, annoyed at the fresh 
difficulty in his path. 

“ I’ll not stir never a step till you give me that switch, as 
you’ve got for some mischief, I’ll be bound.” 

“ Sally ! remember where it is said, ‘ He that spareth the 
rod, spoileth the child,’ ” said Mr. Benson austerely. 

“ Ay, I remember ; and I remember a bit more than you 
want me to remember, I reckon. It were King Solomon as 
spoke them words, and it were King Solomon’s son that were 
King Kehoboam, and no great shakes either. I can 
remember what is said on him, 2 Chronicles, xii. chapter, 
14th v. : ‘ And he ’ — that’s King Kehoboam, the lad that 
tasted the rod — ‘ did evil, because he prepared not his heart 
to seek the Lord.’ I’ve not been reading my chapters every 
night for fifty year to be caught napping by a Dissenter, 
neither! ” said she triumphantly. “ Come along, Leonard.” 
She stretched out her hand to the child, thinking that she 
had conquered. 

But Leonard did not stir. He looked wistfully at Mr. 
Benson. “ Come ! ” said she impatiently. The boy’s mouth 
quivered. 

“ If you want to whip me, uncle, you may do it. I don’t 
much mind.” 

Put in this form, it was impossible to carry out his 
intentions ; and so Mr. Benson told the lad he might go — 
that he would speak to him another time. Leonard went 
away, more subdued in spirit than if he had been whipped. 
Sally lingered a moment. She stopped to add : “I think 
it’s for them without sin to throw stones at a poor child, and 
cut up good laburnum-branches to whip him. I only do as 
my betters do, when I call Leonard’s mother Mrs. Denbigh.” 
The moment she had said this she was sorry; it was an 
ungenerous advantage after the enemy had acknowledged 

202 


After Five Years 

himself defeated. Mr. Benson dropped his head upon his 
hands and hid his face, and sighed deeply. 

Leonard flew in search of his mother, as in search of a 
refuge. If he had found her calm, he would have burst into 
a passion of crying after his agitation ; as it was, he came 
upon her kneeling and sobbing, and he stood quite still. 
Then he threw his arms round her neck, and said, 
“ Mamma ! mamma ! I will be good — I make a promise ; 
I will speak true — I make a promise.” And he kept his 
word. 

Miss Benson piqued herself upon being less carried away 
by her love for this child than any one else in the house ; she 
talked severely, and had capital theories ; but her severity 
ended in talk, and her theories would not work. However, 
she read several books on education, knitting socks for 
Leonard all the while; and, upon the whole, I think, the 
hands were more usefully employed than the head, and the 
good honest heart better than either. She looked older than 
when we first knew her, but it was a ripe, kindly age that 
was coming over her. Her excellent practical sense, 
perhaps, made her a more masculine character than her 
brother. He was often so much perplexed by the problems 
of life, that he let the time for action go by ; but she kept 
him in check by her clear, pithy talk, which brought back 
his wandering thoughts to the duty that lay straight before 
him, waiting for action ; and then he remembered that it was 
the faithful part to “ wait patiently upon God,” and leave the 
ends in His hands, who alone knows why Evil exists in this 
world, and why it ever hovers on either side of Good. In 
this respect, Miss Benson had more faith than her brother — • 
or so it seemed ; for quick, resolute action in the next step 
of Life was all she required, while he deliberated and 
trembled, and often did wrong from his very deliberation, 
when his first instinct would have led him right. 

But, although decided and prompt as ever, Miss Benson 
was grown older since the summer afternoon when she 
dismounted from the coach at the foot of the long Welsh hill 

203 


Ruth 

that led to Llan-dhu, where her brother awaited her to 
consult her about Euth. Though her eye was as bright and 
straight-looking as ever, quick and brave in its glances, her 
hair had become almost snowy white ; and it was on this 
point she consulted Sally, soon after the date of Leonard’s 
last untruth. The two were arranging Miss Benson’s room 
one morning, when, after dusting the looking-glass, she 
suddenly stopped in her operation, and after a close 
inspection of herself, startled Sally by this speech — 

“ Sally ! I’m looking a great deal older than I used to do ! ” 

Sally, who was busy dilating on the increased price of 
flour, considered this remark of Miss Benson’s as strangely 
irrelevant to the matter in hand, and only noticed it by a — 

“ To be sure ! I suppose we all on us do. But two-and- 
fourpence a dozen is too much to make us pay for it.” 

Miss Benson went on with her inspection of herself, and 
Sally with her economical projects. 

“ Sally ! ” said Miss Benson, “ my hair is nearly white. 
The last time I looked it was only pepper-and-salt. What 
must I do ? ” 

“ Do — why, what would the wench do ? ” asked Sally 
contemptuously. “ Ye’re never going to be taken in, at your 
time of life, by hair- dyes and such gimcracks, as can only 
take in young girls whose wisdom-teeth are not cut.” 

“ And who are not very likely to want them,” said Miss 
Benson quietly. “ No ! but you see, Sally, it’s very awkward 
having such grey hair, and feeling so young. Do you know, 
Sally, I’ve as great a mind for dancing, when I hear a lively 
tune on the street-organs, as ever ; and as great a mind to 
sing when I’m happy — to sing in my old way, Sally, you 
know.” 

“ Ay, you had it from a girl,” said Sally ; “ and many a 
time, when the door’s been shut, I did not know if it was you 
in the parlour, or a big bumble-bee in the kitchen, as was 
making that drumbling noise. I heard you at it yesterday.” 

“ But an old woman with grey hair ought not to have a 
fancy for dancing or singing,” continued Miss Benson. 

204 


After Five Years 

“ Whatten nonsense are ye talking ? ” said Sally, roused 
to indignation. “ Calling yoursel’ an old woman when you’re 
better than ten years younger than me ; and many a girl has 
grey hair at five-and- twenty.” 

“ But I’m more than five-and- twenty, Sally — I’m fifty- 
seven next May ! ” 

“ More shame for ye, then, not to know better than to 
talk of dyeing your hair. I cannot abide such vanities ! ” 

“ Oh dear ! Sally, when will you understand what I 
mean ? I want to know how I’m to keep remembering how 
old I am, so as to prevent myself from feeling so young? 
I was quite startled just now to see my hair in the glass, for 
I can generally tell if my cap is straight by feeling. I’ll tell 
you what I’ll do — I’ll cut off a piece of my grey hair, and 
plait it together for a marker in my Bible ! ” Miss Benson 
expected applause for this bright idea, but Sally only made 
answer — 

“ You’ll be taking to painting your cheeks next, how 
you’ve once thought of dyeing your hair.” So Miss Benson 
plaited her grey hair in silence and quietness, Leonard 
holding one end of it while she wove it, and admiring the 
colour and texture all the time, with a sort of implied 
dissatisfaction at the auburn colour of his own curls, which 
was only half-comforted away by Miss Benson’s informa- 
tion, that, if he lived long enough, his hair would be like 
hers. 

Mr. Benson, who had looked old and frail while he was 
yet but young, was now stationary as to the date of his 
appearance. But there was something more of nervous 
restlessness in his voice and ways than formerly ; that was 
the only change five years had brought to him. And as for 
Sally, she chose to forget age and the passage of years 
altogether, and had as much work in her, to use her own 
expression, as she had at sixteen ; nor was her appearance 
very explicit as to the flight of time. Fifty, sixty, or seventy, 
she might be — not more than the last, not less than the 
first— though her usual answer to any circuitous inquiry a§ 

205 


Ruth 

to her age was now (what it had been for many years past), 
“ I’m feared I shall never see thirty again.” 

Then as to the house. It was not one where the sitting- 
rooms are refurnished every two or three years ; not now, 
even (since Ruth came to share their living) a place where, 
as an article grew shabby or worn, a new one was pur- 
chased. The furniture looked poor, and the carpets almost 
threadbare ; but there was such a dainty spirit of cleanliness 
abroad, such exquisite neatness of repair, and altogether so 
bright and cheerful a look about the rooms — everything so 
above-board — no shifts to conceal poverty under flimsy 
ornament — that many a splendid drawing-room would give 
less pleasure to those who could see evidences of character 
in inanimate things. But whatever poverty there might be 
in the house, there was full luxuriance in the little square 
wall-encircled garden, on two sides of which the parlour and 
kitchen looked. The laburnum-tree, which when Ruth 
came was like a twig stuck into the ground, was now a 
golden glory in spring, and a pleasant shade in summer. 
The wild hop, that Mr. Benson had brought home from one 
of his country rambles, and planted by the parlour- window, 
while Leonard was yet a baby in his mother’s arms, was now 
a garland over the casement, hanging down long tendrils, 
that waved in the breezes, and threw pleasant shadows and 
traceries, like some old Bacchanalian carving, on the parlour- 
walls, at “ mom or dusky eve.” The yellow rose had 
clambered up to the window of Mr. Benson’s bedroom, and 
its blossom -laden branches were supported by a jargonelle 
pear-tree rich in autumnal fruit. 

But, perhaps, in Ruth herself there was the greatest 
external change ; for of the change which had gone on in her 
heart, and mind, and soul, or if there had been any, neither she 
nor any one around her was conscious ; but sometimes Miss 
Benson did say to Sally, “ How very handsome Ruth is 
grown ! ” To which Sally made ungracious answer, “ Yes, she’s 
well enough. Beauty is deceitful, and favour a snare, and 
I’m thankful the Lord has spared me from such man-traps 

206 


After Five Years 

and spring-guns.” But even Sally could not help secretly 
admiring Ruth. If her early brilliancy of colouring was 
gone, a clear ivory skin, as smooth as satin, told of complete 
and perfect health, and was as lovely, if not so striking in 
effect, as the banished lilies and roses. Her hair had 
grown darker and deeper, in the shadow that lingered in its 
masses ; her eyes, even if you could have guessed that they 
had shed bitter tears in their day, had a thoughtful, spiritual 
look about them, that made you wonder at their depth, and 
look — and look again. The increase of dignity in her face 
had been imparted to her form. I do not know if she had 
grown taller since the birth of her child, but she looked as if 
she had. And although she had lived in a very humble 
home, yet there was something about either it or her, or the 
people amongst whom she had been thrown during the last 
few years, which had so changed her, that whereas, six or 
seven years ago, you would have perceived that she was not 
altogether a lady by birth and education, yet now she might 
have been placed among the highest in the land, and would 
have been taken by the most critical judge for their equal, 
although ignorant of their conventional etiquette — an ignor- 
ance which she would have acknowledged in a simple, child- 
like way, being unconscious of any false shame. 

Her whole heart was in her boy. She often feared that 
she loved him too much — more than God Himself — yet she 
could not bear to pray to have her love for her child lessened. 
But she would kneel down by his little bed at night — at the 
deep, still midnight — with the stars that kept watch over 
Rizpah shining down upon her, and tell God what I have 
now told you, that she feared she loved her child too much, 
yet could not, would not, love him less ; and speak to Him 
of her one treasure as she could speak to no earthly friend. 
And so, unconsciously, her love for her child led her up to 
love to God, to the All-knowing, who read her heart. 

It might be superstition — I dare say it was — but, some- 
how, she never lay down to rest without saying, as she 
looked her last on her boy, “ Thy will, not mine, be done ” ; 

207 


Ruth 

and even while she trembled and shrank with infinite dread 
from sounding the depths of what that will might be, she 
felt as if her treasure were more secure to waken up rosy 
and bright in the morning, as one over whose slumbers 
God’s holy angels had watched, for the very words which 
she had turned away in sick terror from realising the night 
before. 

Her daily absence at her duties to the Bradshaw children 
only ministered to her love for Leonard. Everything does 
minister to love when its foundation lies deep in a true 
heart, and it was with an exquisite pang of delight that, after 
a moment of vague fear, 

(“ Oh, mercy ! to myself I said, 

If Lucy should be dead ! ”) 

she saw her child’s bright face of welcome as he threw open 
the door every afternoon on her return home. For it was 
his silently-appointed work to listen for her knock, and rush 
breathless to let her in. If he were in the garden, or upstairs 
among the treasures of the lumber-room, either Miss 
Benson, or her brother, or Sally would fetch him to his 
happy little task ; no one so sacred as he to the allotted duty. 
And the joyous meeting was not deadened by custom, to 
either mother or child. 

Ruth gave the Bradshaws the highest satisfaction, as Mr. 
Bradshaw often said both to her and to the Bensons ; indeed, 
she rather winced under his pompous approbation. But his 
favourite recreation was patronising ; and when Ruth saw 
how quietly and meekly Mr. Benson submitted to gifts and 
praise, when an honest word of affection, or a tacit, implied 
acknowledgment of equality, would have been worth every- 
thing said and done, she tried to be more meek in spirit, and 
to recognise the good that undoubtedly existed in Mr. 
Bradshaw. He was richer and more prosperous than ever ; 
— a keen, far-seeing man of business, with an undisguised 
contempt for all who failed in the success which he had 
achieved. But it was not alone those who were less fortu- 
nate in obtaining wealth than himself that he visited with 

208 


After Five Years 

severity of judgment ; every moral error or delinquency came 
under his unsparing comment. Stained by no vice himself, 
either in his own eyes or in that of any human being who 
cared to judge him, having nicely and wisely proportioned 
and adapted his means to his ends, he could afford to speak 
and act with a severity which was almost sanctimonious in 
its ostentation of thankfulness as to himself. Not a mis- 
fortune or a sin was brought to light but Mr. Bradshaw 
could trace to its cause in some former mode of action, 
which he had long ago foretold would lead to shame. If 
another’s son turned out wild or bad, Mr. Bradshaw had little 
sympathy ; it might have been prevented by a stricter rule, 
or more religious life at home ; young Richard Bradshaw 
was quiet and steady, and other fathers might have had sons 
like him if they had taken the same pains to enforce obedi- 
ence. Richard was an only son, and yet Mr. Bradshaw 
might venture to say he had never had his own way in his 
life. Mrs. Bradshaw was, he confessed (Mr. Bradshaw did 
not dislike confessing his wife’s errors), rather less firm than 
he should have liked with the girls ; and with some people, 
he believed, Jemima was rather headstrong ; but to his 
wishes she had always shown herself obedient. All children 
were obedient if their parents were decided and authoritative ; 
and every one would turn out well, if properly managed. If 
they did not prove good, they might take the consequences 
of their errors. 

Mrs. Bradshaw murmured faintly at her husband when 
his back was turned ; but if his voice was heard, or his foot- 
steps sounded in the distance, she was mute, and hurried 
her children into the attitude or action most pleasing to their 
father. Jemima, it is true, rebelled against this manner of 
proceeding, which savoured to her a little of deceit ; but even 
she had not, as yet, overcome her awe of her father suffi- 
ciently to act independently of him, and according to her 
own sense of right — or rather, I should say, according to her 
own warm, passionate impulses. Before him the wilfulness 
which made her dark eyes blaze out at times was hushed 

209 p 


Ruth 

and still ; he had no idea of her self-tormenting, no notion 
of the almost southern jealousy which seemed to belong to 
her brunette complexion. Jemima was not pretty ; the flat- 
ness and shortness of her face made her almost plain ; yet 
most people looked twice at her expressive countenance, at 
the eyes which flamed or melted at every trifle, at the rich 
colour which came at every expressed emotion into her 
usually sallow face, at the faultless teeth which made her smile 
like a sunbeam. But then, again, when she thought she was 
not kindly treated, when a suspicion crossed her mind, or 
when she was angry with herself, her lips were tight-pressed 
together, her colour was wan and almost livid, and a stormy 
gloom clouded her eyes as with a film. But before her father 
her words were few, and he did not notice looks or tones. 

Her brother Bichard had been equally silent before his 
father in boyhood and early youth ; but since he had gone to 
be a clerk in a London house, preparatory to assuming his 
place as junior partner in Mr. Bradshaw’s business, he spoke 
more on his occasional visits at home. And very proper 
and highly moral was his conversation ; set sentences of 
goodness, which were like the flowers that children stick in 
the ground, and that have not sprung upwards from roots — 
deep down in the hidden life and experience of the heart. 
He was as severe a judge as his father of other people’s 
conduct, but you felt that Mr. Bradshaw was sincere in his 
condemnation of all outward error and vice, and that he would 
try himself by the same laws as he tried others ; somehow, 
Richard’s words were frequently heard with a lurking dis- 
trust, and many shook their heads over the pattern son ; but 
then it was those whose sons had gone astray, and been 
condemned, in no private or tender manner, by Mr. Bradshaw, 
so it might be revenge in them. Still, Jemima felt that 
all was not right ; her heart sympathised in the rebellion 
against his father’s commands, which her brother had con- 
fessed to her in an unusual moment of confidence, but her 
uneasy conscience condemned the deceit which he had 
practised. 


210 


After Five Years 

The brother and sister were sitting alone over a blazing 
Christmas fire, and Jemima held an old newspaper in her 
hand to shield her face from the hot light. They were 
talking of family events, when, during a pause, Jemima’s eye 
caught the name of a great actor, who had lately given 
prominence and life to a character in one of Shakspeare’s 
plays. The criticism in the paper was fine, and warmed 
Jemima’s heart. 

“ How I should like to see a play ! ” exclaimed she. 

“ Should you ? ” said her brother listlessly. 

“ Yes, to be sure ! Just hear this ! ” and she began to 
read a fine passage of criticism. 

“ Those newspaper people can make an article out of 
anything,” said he, yawning. “ I’ve seen the man myself, 
and it was all very well, but nothing to make such a fuss 
about.” 

“ You ! you seen ! Have you seen a play, Richard ? 

Oh, why did you never tell me before ? Tell me all about 
it ! Why did you never name seeing in your letters ? ” 

He half smiled, contemptuously enough. “ Oh ! at first 
it strikes one rather, but after a while one cares no more 
for the theatre than one does for mince-pies.” 

“ Oh, I wish I might go to London ! ” said Jemima im- 
patiently. “ I’ve a great mind to ask papa to let me go to 

the George Smiths’, and then I could see . I would not 

think him like mince-pies.” 

“ You must not do any such thing ! ” said Richard, now 
neither yawning nor contemptuous. “ My father would 
never allow you to go to the theatre ; and the George Smiths 
are such old fogeys — they would be sure to tell.” 

“ How do you go, then ? Does my father give you 
leave ? ” 

“ Oh ! many things are right for men which are not for 
girls.” 

Jemima sat and pondered. Richard wished he had not 
been so confidential. 

“ You need not name it,” said he, rather anxiously. 

21 1 


Ruth 

“ Name what ? ” said she, startled, for her thoughts had 
gone far afield. 

“ Oh, name my going once or twice to the theatre ! ” 

“ No, I shan’t name it ! ” said she. “ No one here would 
care to hear it.” 

But it was with some little surprise, and almost with a 
feeling of disgust, that she heard Bichard join with her father 
in condemning some one, and add to Mr. Bradshaw’s list of 
offences, by alleging that the young man was a playgoer. 
He did not think his sister heard his words. 

Mary and Elizabeth were the two girls whom Buth had in 
charge ; they resembled Jemima more than their brother in 
character. The household rules were occasionally a little 
relaxed in their favour, for Mary, the elder, was nearly eight 
years younger than Jemima, and three intermediate children 
had died. They loved Buth dearly, made a great pet of Leonard, 
and had many profound secrets together, most of which 
related to tfieir wonders if Jemima and Mr. Earquhar would 
ever be married. They watched their sister closely; and 
every day had some fresh confidence to make to each other, 
confirming or discouraging to their hopes. 

Buth rose early, and shared the household work with 
Sally and Miss Benson till seven ; and then she helped 
Leonard to dress, and had a quiet time alone with him till 
prayers and breakfast. At nine she was to be at Mr. Brad- 
shaw’s house. She sat in the room with Mary and Elizabeth 
during the Latin, the writing, and arithmetic lessons, which 
they received from masters ; then she read, and walked with 
them, clinging to her as to an elder sister ; she dined with her 
pupils at the family lunch, and reached home by four. That 
happy home — those quiet days ! 

And so the peaceful days passed on into weeks, and 
months, and years, and Buth and Leonard grew and 
strengthened into the riper beauty of their respective ages ; 
while as yet no touch of decay had come on the quaint, 
primitive elders of the household. 


212 


Jemima refuses to be Managed 


CHAPTER XX 

JEMIMA REFUSES TO BE MANAGED 

It was no wonder that the lookers-on were perplexed as to 
the state of affairs between Jemima and Mr. Earqnhar, for 
they two were sorely puzzled themselves at the sort of 
relationship between them. Was it love, or was it not ? that 
was the question in Mr. Earquhar’s mind. He hoped it was 
not ; he believed it was not ; and yet he felt as if it were. 
There was something preposterous, he thought, in a man nearly 
forty years of age being in love with a girl of twenty. He had 
gone on reasoning, through all the days of his manhood, on 
the idea of a staid, noble-minded wife, grave and sedate, the 
fit companion in experience of her husband. He had spoken 
with admiration of reticent characters, full of self-control and 
dignity ; and he hoped— he trusted, that all this time he had 
not been allowing himself unconsciously to fall in love with a 
wild-hearted, impetuous girl, who knew nothing of life beyond 
her father’s house, and who chafed under the strict discipline 
enforced there. For it was rather a suspicious symptom of 
the state of Mr. Earquhar’s affections, that he had discovered 
the silent rebellion which continued in Jemima’s heart, un- 
perceived by any of her own family, against the severe laws 
and opinions of her father. Mr. Earquhar shared in these 
opinions ; but in him they were modified, and took a milder 
form. Still, he approved of much that Mr. Bradshaw did and 
said ; and this made it all the more strange that he should 
wince so for Jemima, whenever anything took place which 
he instinctively knew that she would dislike. After an even- 
ing at Mr. Bradshaw’s, when Jemima had gone to the very 
verge of questioning or disputing some of her father’s severe 
judgments, Mr. Farquhar went home in a dissatisfied, restless 
state of mind, which he was almost afraid to analyse. He 
admired the inflexible integrity — and almost the pomp of 

213 


Ruth 

principle — evinced by Mr. Bradshaw on every occasion ; he 
wondered how it was that Jemima could not see how grand 
a life might be, whose every action was shaped in obedience 
to some eternal law ; instead of which, he was afraid she 
rebelled against every law, and was only guided by impulse. 
Mr. Farquhar had been taught to dread impulses as prompt- 
ings of the devil. Sometimes, if he tried to present her 
father’s opinion before her in another form, so as to bring 
himself and her rather more into that state of agreement he 
longed for, she flashed out upon him with the indignation of 
difference that she dared not show to, or before, her father, 
as if she had some diviner instinct which taught her more 
truly than they knew, with all their experience ; at least, in 
her first expressions there seemed something good and fine ; 
but opposition made her angry and irritable, and the argu- 
ments which he was constantly provoking (whenever he was 
with her in her father’s absence) frequently ended in some 
vehemence of expression on her part that offended Mr. 
Farquhar, who did not see how she expiated her anger in 
tears and self-reproaches when alone in her chamber. Then 
he would lecture himself severely on the interest he could 
not help feeling in a wilful girl ; he would determine not to 
interfere with her opinions in future, and yet, the very next 
time they differed, he strove to argue her into harmony with 
himself, in spite of all resolutions to the contrary. 

Mr. Bradshaw saw just enough of this interest which 
Jemima had excited in his partner’s mind, to determine him 
in considering their future marriage as a settled affair. The 
fitness of the thing had long ago struck him ; her father’s 
partner — so the fortune he meant to give her might continue 
in the business ; a man of such steadiness of character, and 
such a capital eye for a desirable speculation, as Mr. 
Farquhar — just the right age to unite the paternal with the 
conjugal affection, and consequently the very man for 
Jemima, who had something unruly in her, which might 
break out under a regime less wisely adjusted to the circum- 
stances than was Mr. Bradshaw’s (in his own opinion) — a 

214 


Jemima refuses to be Managed 

house ready furnished, at a convenient distance from her 
home — no near relations on Mr. Farquhar’s side, who might 
be inclined to consider his residence as their own for an 
indefinite time, and so add to the household expenses — in short, 
what could be more suitable in every way ? Mr. Bradshaw 
respected the very self-restraint he thought he saw in 
Mr. Farquhar’s demeanour, attributing it to a wise desire to 
wait until trade should be rather more slack, and the man of 
business more at leisure to become the lover. 

As for Jemima, at times she thought she almost hated 
Mr. Farquhar. 

“ What business has he,” she would think, “ to lecture 
me ? Often I can hardly bear it from papa, and I will not 
bear it from him. He treats me just like a child, and as if I 
should lose all my present opinions when I know more of the 
world. I am sure I should like never to know the world, if 
it was to make me think as he does, hard man that he is ! I 
wonder what made him take Jem Brown on as gardener 
again, if he does not believe that above one criminal in a 
thousand is restored to goodness. I’ll ask him, some day, if 
that was not acting on impulse rather than principle. Poor 
impulse ! how you do get abused ! But I will tell Mr. 
Farquhar I will not let him interfere with me. If I do what 
papa bids me, no one has a right to notice whether I do it 
willingly or not.” 

So then she tried to defy Mr. Farquhar, by doing and 
saying things that she knew he would disapprove. She went 
so far that he was seriously grieved, and did not even 
remonstrate and “ lecture,” and then she was disappointed and 
irritated; for, somehow, with all her indignation at inter- 
ference, she liked to be lectured by him ; not that she was 
aware of this liking of hers, but still it would have been more 
pleasant to be scolded than so quietly passed over. Her two 
little sisters, with their wide-awake eyes, had long ago put 
things together, and conjectured. Every day they had some 
fresh mystery together, to be imparted in garden walks and 
whispered talks. 


215 


Ruth 

“ Lizzie, did you see how the tears came into Mimie’s 
eyes when Mr. Farquhar looked so displeased when she said 
good people were always dull? I think she’s in love.” 
Mary said the last words with grave emphasis, and felt like an 
oracle of twelve years of age. 

“ I don’t,” said Lizzie. “ I know I cry often enough 
when papa is cross, and I’m not in love with him.” 

“ Yes ! but you don’t look as Mimie did.” 

“ Don’t call her Mimie — you know papa does not like 
it?” 

“ Yes ; but there are so many things papa does not like 
I can never remember them all. Never mind about that ; 
but listen to something I’ve got to tell you, if you’ll never, 
never tell.” 

“ No, indeed I won’t, Mary. What is it ? ” 

“ Not to Mrs. Denbigh ? ” 

“No, not even to Mrs. Denbigh.” 

“ Well, then, the other day — last Friday, Mimie ” 

“ Jemima ! ” interrupted the more conscientious Eliza- 
beth. 

“ Jemima, if it must be so,” jerked out Mary, “sent me 
to her desk for an envelope, and what do you think I saw ? ” 

“ What ? ” asked Elizabeth, expecting nothing else than 
a red-hot Valentine, signed Walter Farquhar, pro Bradshaw, 
Farquhar, & Co., in full. 

“ Why, a piece of paper, with dull-looking lines upon it, 
just like the scientific dialogues ; and I remember all about 
it. It was once when Mr. Farquhar had been telling us 
that a bullet does not go in a straight line, but in a some- 
thing curve, and he drew some lines on a piece of paper ; 
and Mimie ” 

“Jemima ! ” put in Elizabeth. 

“ Well, well ! She had treasured it up, and written in a 
corner, ‘ W. F., April 3rd.’ Now, that’s rather like love, is 
not it ? For Jemima hates useful information just as much 
as I do, and that’s saying a great deal; and yet she had 
kept this paper, and dated it.” 

216 


Jemima refuses to be Managed 

“ If that’s all, I know Dick keeps a paper with Miss 
Benson’s name written on it, and yet he’s not in love with 
her; and perhaps Jemima may like Mr. Farquhar, and he 
may not like her. It seems such a little while since her hair 
was turned up, and he has always been a grave, middle-aged 
man ever since I can recollect; and then, have you never noticed 
how often he finds fault with her — almost lectures her ? ” 

“ To be sure,” said Mary; “ but he may be in love, for 
all that. Just think how often papa lectures mamma ; and 
yet, of course, they’re in love with each other.” 

“ Well ! we shall see,” said Elizabeth. 

Poor Jemima little thought of the four sharp eyes that 
watched her daily course while she sat alone, as she fancied, 
with her secret in her own room. For, in a passionate fit of 
grieving, at the impatient, hasty temper which had made her 
so seriously displease Mr. Farquhar that he had gone away 
without remonstrance, without more leave-taking than a 
distant bow, she had begun to suspect that, rather than not 
be noticed at all by him, rather than be an object of indiffer- 
ence to him — oh ! far rather would she be an object of anger 
and upbraiding ; and the thoughts that followed this confes- 
sion to herself stunned and bewildered her ; and for once 
that they made her dizzy with hope, ten times they made 
her sick with fear. For an instant she planned to become 
and to be all he could wish her ; to change her very nature 
for him. And then a great gush of pride came over her, and 
she set her teeth tight together, and determined that he 
should either love her as she was or not at all. Unless he 
could take her with all her faults, she would not care for his 
regard ; “ love ” was too noble a word to call such cold, 
calculating feeling as his must be, who went about with a 
pattern idea in his mind, trying to find a wife to match. 
Besides, there was something degrading, J emima thought, in 
trying to alter herself to gain the love of any human creature. 
And yet, if he did not care for her, if this late indifference 
were to last, what a great shroud was drawn over life ! 
Could she bear it ? 


217 


Ruth 

From the agony she dared not look at, but which she was 
going to risk encountering, she was aroused by the presence 
of her mother. 

“ Jemima ! your father wants to speak to you in the 
dining-room.” 

“ What for ? ” asked the girl. 

“ Oh ! he is fidgeted by something Mr. Farquhar said to 
me, and which I repeated. I am sure I thought there was 
no harm in it, and your father always likes me to tell him 
what everybody says in his absence.” 

Jemima went with a heavy heart into her father’s 
presence. 

He was walking up and down the room, and did not see 
her at first. 

“ O Jemima ! is that you ? Has your mother told you 
what I want to speak to you about ? ” 

“ No ! ” said Jemima. “Not exactly.” 

“ She has been telling me what proves to me how very 
seriously you must have displeased and offended Mr. 
Farquhar, before he could have expressed himself to her as 
he did, when he left the house. You know what he said ? ” 

“ No ! ” said Jemima, her heart swelling within her. 
“ He has no right to say anything about me.” She was 
desperate, or she durst not have said this before her father. 

“No right! — what do you mean, Jemima?” said Mr. 
Bradshaw, turning sharp round. “ Surely you must know 
that I hope he may one day be your husband ; that is to say, 
if you prove yourself worthy of the excellent training I have 
given you. I cannot suppose Mr. Farquhar would take any 
undisciplined girl as a wife.” 

J emima held tight by a chair near which she was stand- 
ing. She did not speak ; her father was pleased by her 
silence — it was the way in which he liked his projects to be 
received. 

“ But you cannot suppose,” he continued, “ that Mr. 
Farquhar will consent to marry you ” 

“ Consent to marry me!” repeated Jemima, in a low 
218 


Jemima refuses to be Managed ' 

tone of brooding indignation; were those the terms upon 
which her rich woman’s heart was to be given, with a calm 
consent of acquiescent acceptance, but a little above resigna- 
tion on the part of the receiver ? 

— “if you give way to a temper which, although you 
have never dared to show it to me, I am well aware exists, 
although I hoped the habits of self-examination I had 
instilled had done much to cure you of manifesting it. At 
one time, Richard promised to be the more headstrong of 
the two; now, I must desire you to take pattern by him. 
Yes,” he continued, falling into his old train of thought, 
“ it would be a most fortunate connection for you in every 
way. I should have you under my own eye, and could still 
assist you in the formation of your character, and I should 
be at hand to strengthen and confirm your principles. Mr. 
Farquhar’s connection with the firm would be convenient 

and agreeable to me in a pecuniary point of view. He ” 

Mr. Bradshaw was going on in his enumeration of the 
advantages which he in particular, and Jemima in the second 
place, would derive from this marriage, when his daughter 
spoke, at first so low that he could not hear her, as he walked 
up and down the room with his creaking boots, and he had 
to stop to listen. 

“ Has Mr. Farquhar ever spoken to you about it ? ” 
Jemima’s cheek was flushed as she asked the question ; she 
wished that she might have been the person to whom he had 
first addressed himself. 

Mr. Bradshaw answered — 

“ No, not spoken. It has been implied between us for 
some time. At least, I have been so aware of his intentions 
that I have made several allusions, in the course of business, 
to it, as a thing that might take place. He can hardly have 
misunderstood ; he must have seen that I perceived his 
design, and approved of it,” said Mr. Bradshaw, rather 
doubtfully ; as he remembered how very little, in fact, passed 
between him and his partner which could have reference 
to the subject, to any but a mind prepared to receive it. 

219 


Ruth 

Perhaps Mr. Farquhar had not really thought of it ; but then 
again, that would imply that his own penetration had been 
mistaken, a thing not impossible certainly, but quite beyond 
the range of probability. So he reassured himself, and (as 
he thought) his daughter, by saying — 

“ The whole thing is so suitable — the advantages arising 
from the connection are so obvious ; besides which, I am 
quite aware, from many little speeches of Mr. Farquhar’s, 
that he contemplates marriage at no very distant time ; and 
he seldom leaves Eccleston, and visits few families besides 
our own — certainly, none that can compare with ours in the 
advantages you have all received in moral and religious 
training.” But then Mr. Bradshaw was checked in his 
implied praises of himself (and only himself could be his 
martingale when he once set out on such a career) by a 
recollection that Jemima must not feel too secure, as she 
might become if he dwelt too much on the advantages 
of her being her father’s daughter. Accordingly, he said, 
“ But you must be aware, Jemima, that you do very little 
credit to the education I have given you, when you make 
such an impression as you must have done to-day, before 
Mr. Farquhar could have said what he did of you ! ” 

“What did he say?” asked Jemima, still in the low, 
husky tone of suppressed anger. 

“ Your mother says he remarked to her, ‘ What a pity it 
is that Jemima cannot maintain her opinions without going 
into a passion ; and what a pity it is that her opinions are 
such as to sanction, rather than curb, these fits of rudeness 
and anger ! * ” 

“ Did he say that ? ” said Jemima, in a still lower tone, 
not questioning her father, but speaking rather to herself. 

“ I have no doubt he did,” replied her father gravely. 
“ Your mother is in the habit of repeating accurately to me 
what takes place in my absence ; besides which, the whole 
speech is not one of hers ; she has not altered a word in the 
repetition, I am convinced. I have trained her to habits of 
accuracy very unusual in a woman.” 


220 


Jemima refuses to be Managed 

At another time, Jemima might have been inclined to 
rebel against this system of carrying constant intelligence to 
headquarters, which she had long ago felt as an insurmount- 
able obstacle to any free communication with her mother ; 
but now, her father’s means of acquiring knowledge faded 
into insignificance before the nature of the information he 
imparted. She stood quite still, grasping the chair-back, 
longing to be dismissed. 

“ I have said enough now, I hope, to make you behave 
in a becoming manner to Mr. Farquhar ; if your temper is 
too unruly to be always under your own control, at least 
have respect to my injunctions, and take some pains to curb 
it before him.” 

“ May I go ? ” asked Jemima, chafing more and more. 

“You may,” said her father. When she left the room 
he gently rubbed his hands together, satisfied with the effect 
he had produced, and wondering how it was that one so well 
brought up as his daughter could ever say or do anything to 
provoke such a remark from Mr. Farquhar as that which he 
had heard repeated. 

“ Nothing can be more gentle and docile than she is 
when spoken to in the proper manner. I must give Farquhar 
a hint,” said Mr. Bradshaw to himself. 

Jemima rushed upstairs and locked herself into her room. 
She began pacing up and down at first, without shedding a 
tear ; but then she suddenly stopped, and burst out crying 
with passionate indignation. 

“ So ! I am to behave well, not because it is right — not 
because it is right — but to show off before Mr. Farquhar. 
Oh, Mr. Farquhar ! ” said she, suddenly changing to a sort 
of upbraiding tone of voice, “ I did not think so of you an 
hour ago. I did not think you could choose a wife in that 
cold-hearted way, though you did profess to act by rule and 
line ; but you think to have me, do you ? because it is fitting 
and suitable, and you want to be married, and can’t spare 
time for wooing” (she was lashing herself up by an exaggera- 
tion of all her father had said). “ And how often I have 

221 


Ruth 

thought you were too grand for me ! but now I know better. 
Now I can believe that all you do is done from calculation ; 
you are good because it adds to your business credit — you 
talk in that high strain about principle because it sounds 
well, and is respectable — and even these things are better 
than your cold way of looking out for a wife, just as you 
would do for a carpet, to add to your comforts, and settle 
you respectably. But I won’t be that wife. You shall see 
something of me which shall make you not acquiesce so 
quietly in the arrangements of the firm.” She cried too 
vehemently to go on thinking or speaking. Then she 
stopped, and said — 

“ Only an hour ago I was hoping — I don’t know what I 
was hoping — but I thought — oh! how I was deceived! — I 
thought he had a true, deep, loving manly heart, which God 
might let me win ; but now I know he has only a calm, 
calculating head ” 

If Jemima had been vehement and passionate before this 
conversation with her father, it was better than the sullen 
reserve she assumed now whenever Mr. Farquhar came to 
the house. He felt it deeply ; no reasoning with himself 
took off the pain he experienced. He tried to speak on the 
subjects she liked, in the manner she liked, until he despised 
himself for the unsuccessful efforts. 

He stood between her and her father once or twice, in 
obvious inconsistency with his own previously expressed 
opinions ; and Mr. Bradshaw piqued himself upon his 
admirable management, in making Jemima feel that she 
owed his indulgence or forbearance to Mr. Farquhar’ s inter- 
ference ; but Jemima — perverse, miserable Jemima — thought 
that she hated Mr. Farquhar all the more. She respected 
her father inflexible, much more than her father pompously 
giving up to Mr. Farquhar’ s subdued remonstrances on her 
behalf. Even Mr. Bradshaw was perplexed, and shut him- 
self up to consider how Jemima was to be made more fully 
no understand his wishes and her own interests. But there 
was nothing to take hold of as a ground for any further 

222 


Jemima refuses to be Managed 

conversation with her. Her actions were so submissive that 
they were spiritless ; she did all her father desired ; she did 
it with a nervous quickness and haste, if she thought that 
otherwise Mr. Farquhar would interfere in any way. She 
wished evidently to owe nothing to him. She had begun by 
leaving the room when he came in, after the conversation 
she had had with her father; but at Mr. Bradshaw’s first 
expression of his wish that she should remain, she remained 
— silent, indifferent, inattentive to all that was going on ; at 
least there was this appearance of inattention. She would 
work away at her sewing as if she were to earn her liveli- 
hood by it ; the light was gone out of her eyes as she lifted 
them up heavily before replying to any question, and the 
eyelids were often swollen with crying. 

But in all this there was no positive fault. Mr. Brad- 
shaw could not have told her not to do this, or to do that, 
without her doing it ; for she had become much more docile 
of late. 

It was a wonderful proof of the influence Ruth had gained 
in the family, that Mr. Bradshaw, after much deliberation, 
congratulated himself on the wise determination he had 
made of requesting her to speak to Jemima, and find out 
what feeling was at the bottom of all this change in her 
ways cf going on. 

He rang the bell. 

“ Is Mrs. Denbigh here ? ” he inquired of the servant 
who answered it. 

“ Yes, sir ; she has just come.” 

“ Beg her to come to me in this room as soon as she can 
leave the young ladies.” 

Ruth came. 

“ Sit down, Mrs. Denbigh ; sit down. I want to have a 
little conversation with you ; not about your pupils ; they 
are going on well under your care, I am sure ; and I often 
congratulate myself on the choice I made — I assure you 
I do. But now I want to speak to you about Jemima. 
She is very fond of you, and perhaps you could take an 

223 


Ruth 

opportunity of observing to her — in short, of saying to her, 
that she is behaving very foolishly — in fact, disgusting Mr. 
Farquhar (who was, I know, inclined to like her) by the 
sullen, sulky way she behaves in, when he is by.” 

He paused for the ready acquiescence he expected. But 
Ruth did not quite comprehend what was required of her, 
and disliked the glimpse she had gained of the task very 
much. 

“ I hardly understand, sir. You are displeased with 
Miss Bradshaw’s manners to Mr. Farquhar.” 

“Well, well! not quite that; I am displeased with her 
manners — they are sulky and abrupt, particularly when he 
is by — and I want you (of whom she is so fond) to speak to 
her about it.” 

“ But I have never had the opportunity of noticing 
them. Whenever I have seen her, she has been most gentle 
and affectionate.” 

“ But I think you do not hesitate to believe me when I 
say that I have noticed the reverse,” said Mr. Bradshaw, 
drawing himself up. 

“No, sir. I beg your pardon if I have expressed myself 
so badly as to seem to doubt. But am I to tell Miss Brad- 
shaw that you have spoken of her faults to me ? ” asked 
Ruth, a little astonished, and shrinking more than ever from 
the proposed task. 

“ If you would allow me to finish what I have got to 
say, without interruption, I could then tell you what I do 
wish.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said Ruth gently. 

“ I wish you to join our circle occasionally in an even- 
ing; Mrs. Bradshaw shall send you an invitation when 
Mr. Farquhar is likely to be here. Warned by me, and, 
consequently, with your observation quickened, you can 
hardly fail to notice instances of what I have pointed out ; 
and then I will trust to your own good sense ” (Mr. Bradshaw 
bowed to her at this part of his sentence) “ to find an oppor- 
tunity to remonstrate with her.” 

224 


Jemima refuses to be Managed 

Ruth was beginning to speak, but be waved bis band for 
another minute of silence. 

“ Only a minute, Mrs. Denbigh. I am quite aware that, 
in requesting your presence occasionally in the evening, I 
shall be trespassing upon the time which is, in fact, your 
money; you may be assured that I shall not forget this 
little circumstance, and you can explain what I have said on 
this head to Benson and his sister." 

“ I am afraid I cannot do it,” Ruth began ; but, while she 
was choosing words delicate enough to express her reluctance 
to act as he wished, he had almost bowed her out of the 
room ; and thinking that she was modest in her estimate of 
her qualifications for remonstrating with his daughter, he 
added, blandly — ■ 

“No one so able, Mrs. Denbigh. I have observed many 
qualities in you — observed when, perhaps, you have little 
thought it.” 

If he had observed Ruth that morning he would have seen 
an absence of mind and depression of spirits not much to 
her credit as a teacher ; for she could not bring herself to 
feel that she had any right to go into the family purposely 
to watch over and find fault with any one member of it. If 
she had seen anything wrong in Jemima, Ruth loved her 
so much that she would have told her of it in private ; and 
with many doubts, how far she was the one to pull out the 
mote from any one’s eye, even in the most tender manner ; — 
she would have had to conquer reluctance before she could 
have done even this ; but there was something indefinably 
repugnant to her in the manner of acting which Mr. Brad- 
shaw had proposed, and she determined not to accept the 
invitations which were to place her in so false a position. 

But as she was leaving the house, after the end of the 
lessons, while she stood in the hall tying on her bonnet, and 
listening to the last small confidences of her two pupils, she 
saw Jemima coming in through the garden-door, and was 
struck by the change in her looks. The large eyes, so 
brilliant once, were dim and clouded ; the complexion sallow 

225 Q 


Ruth 

and colourless ; a lowering expression was on the dark brow, 
and the corners of her mouth drooped as with sorrowful 
thoughts. She looked up, and her eyes met Euth’s. 

“ Oh ! you beautiful creature ! ” thought Jemima, “ with 
your still, calm, heavenly face, what are you to know of earth’s 
trials ? You have lost your beloved by death — but that is a 
blessed sorrow ; the sorrow I have pulls me down and down, 
and makes me despise and hate every one — not you, though.” 
And, her face changing to a soft, tender look, she went up to 
Euth and kissed her fondly ; as if it were a relief to be near 
some one on whose true, pure heart she relied. Euth returned 
the caress ; and even while she did so, she suddenly rescinded 
her resolution to keep clear of what Mr. Bradshaw had 
desired her to do. On her way home she resolved, if she 
could, to find out what were Jemima’s secret feelings ; and if 
(as, from some previous knowledge, she suspected) they were 
morbid and exaggerated in any way, to try and help her right 
with all the wisdom which true love gives. It was time that 
some one should come to still the storm in Jemima’s tur- 
bulent heart, which was daily and hourly knowing less and 
less of peace. The irritating difficulty was to separate the two 
characters, which at two different times she had attributed to 
Mr. Farquhar — the old one, which she had formerly believed 
to be true, that he was a man acting up to a high standard of 
lofty principle, and acting up without a struggle (and this last 
had been the circumstance which had made her rebellious 
and irritable once) ; the new one, which her father had excited 
in her suspicious mind, that Mr. Farquhar was cold and 
calculating in all he did, and that she was to be transferred 
by the former, and accepted by the latter, as a sort of stock- 
in-trade — these were the two Mr. Farquhars who clashed 
together in her mind. And in this state of irritation and 
prejudice, she could not bear the way in which he gave up 
his opinions to please her ; that was not the way to win her ; 
she liked him far better when he inflexibly and rigidly adhered 
to his idea of right and wrong, not even allowing any force to 
temptation, and hardly any grace to repentance, compared 

226 


Jemima refuses to be Managed 

with that beauty of holiness which had never yielded to sin. 
He had been her idol in those days, as she found out now, 
however much at the time she had opposed him with 
violence. 

As for Mr. Farquhar, he was almost weary of himself ; no 
reasoning, even no principle, seemed to have influence over 
him, for he saw that Jemima was not at all what he approved 
of in woman. He saw her uncurbed and passionate, affect- 
ing to despise the rules of life he held most sacred, and 
indifferent to, if not positively disliking, him ; and yet he 
loved her dearly. But he resolved to make a great effort of 
will, and break loose from these trammels of sense. And 
while he resolved, some old recollection would bring her up, 
hanging on his arm, in all the confidence of early girlhood, 
looking up in his face with her soft, dark eyes, and question- 
ing him upon the mysterious subjects which had so much 
interest for both of them at that time, although they had 
become only matter for dissension in these later days. 

It was also true, as Mr. Bradshaw had said, Mr. Farquhar 
wished to marry, and had not much choice in the small town 
of Eccleston. He never put this so plainly before himself, as 
a reason for choosing Jemima, as her father had done to her; 
but it was an unconscious motive all the same. However, 
now he had lectured himself into the resolution to make a 
pretty long absence from Eccleston, and see if, amongst his 
distant friends, there was no woman more in accordance with 
his ideal, who could put the naughty, wilful, plaguing Jemima 
Bradshaw out of his head, if he did not soon perceive some 
change in her for the better. 

A few days after Ruth’s conversation with Mr. Bradshaw 
the invitation she had been expecting, yet dreading, came. It 
was to her alone. Mr. and Miss Benson were pleased at the 
compliment to her, and urged her acceptance of it. She 
wished that they had been included ; she had not thought it 
right, or kind to Jemima, to tell them why she was going, and 
she feared now lest they should feel a little hurt that they 
were not asked too. But she need not have been afraid. 

227 


Ruth 

They were glad and proud of the attention to her, and never 
thought of themselves. 

“ Euthie, what gown shall you wear to-night ? Your dark- 
grey one, I suppose? ” asked Miss Benson. 

“ Yes, I suppose so. I never thought of it ; but that is 
my best.” 

“ Well, then, I shall quill up a ruff for you. You know I 
am a famous quiller of net.” 

Ruth came downstairs with a little flush on her cheeks 
when she was ready to go. She held her bonnet and shawl 
in her hand, for she knew Miss Benson and Sally would 
want to see her dressed. 

“ Is not mamma pretty ? ” asked Leonard, with a child’s 
pride. 

“ She looks very nice and tidy,” said Miss Benson, who 
had an idea that children should not talk or think about 
beauty. 

“ I think my ruff looks so nice,” said Ruth, with gentle 
pleasure. And, indeed, it did look nice, and set off the pretty 
round throat most becomingly. Her hair, now grown long 
and thick, was smoothed as close to her head as its waving 
nature would allow, and plaited up in a great rich knot low 
down behind. The grey gown was as plain as plain could be. 

“ You should have light gloves, Ruth,” said Miss Ben- 
son. She went upstairs, and brought down a delicate pair 
of Limerick ones, which had been long treasured up in a 
walnut-shell. 

“ They say them gloves is made of chickens’-skins,” said 
Sally, examining them curiously. “ I wonder how they set 
about skinning ’em.” 

“ Here, Ruth,” said Mr. Benson, coming in from the 
garden, “ here’s a rose or two for you. I am sorry there are 
no more ; I hoped I should have had my yellow rose out by 
this time, but the damask and the white are in a warmer 
corner, and have got the start.” 

Miss Benson and Leonard stood at the door, and watched 
her down the little passage-street till she was out of sight. 

228 


Jemima refuses to be Managed 

She had hardly touched the bell at Mr. Bradshaw’s 
door, when Mary and Elizabeth opened it with boisterous 
glee. 

“We saw you coming— we’ve been watching for you— we 
want you to come round the garden before tea ; papa is not 
come in yet. Do come ! ” 

She went round the garden with a little girl clinging to 
each arm. It was full of sunshine and flowers, and this made 
the contrast between it and the usual large family room 
(which fronted the north-east, and therefore had no evening 
sun to light up its cold, drab furniture) more striking than 
usual. It looked very gloomy. There was the great dining- 
table, heavy and square ; the range of chairs, straight and 
square ; the work-boxes, useful and square ; the colouring 
of walls, and carpets, and curtains, all of the coldest 
description ; everything was handsome, and everything 
was ugly. Mrs. Bradshaw was asleep in her easy-chair 
when they came in. Jemima had just put down her work, 
and, lost in thought, she leaned her cheek on her hand. 
When she saw Ruth she brightened a little, and went to her 
and kissed her. Mrs. Bradshaw jumped up at the sound of 
their entrance, and was wide awake in a moment. 

“ Oh ! I thought your father was here,” said she, evidently 
relieved to find that he had not come in and caught her 
sleeping. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Denbigh, for coming to us to-night,” 
said she, in the quiet tone in which she generally spoke in her 
husband’s absence. When he was there, a sort of constant 
terror of displeasing him made her voice sharp and nervous ; 
the children knew that many a thing passed over by their 
mother when their father was away was sure to be noticed 
by her when he was present, and noticed, too, in a cross and 
querulous manner, for she was so much afraid of the blame 
which on any occasion of their misbehaviour fell upon her. 
And yet she looked up to her husband with a reverence and 
regard, and a faithfulness of love, which his decision of 
character was likely to produce on a weak and anxious mind. 

229 


Ruth 

He was a rest and a support to her, on whom she cast all 
her responsibilities ; she was an obedient, unremonstrating 
wife to him ; no stronger affection had ever brought her duty 
into conflict with any desire of her heart. She loved her 
children dearly, though they all perplexed her very frequently. 
Her son was her especial darling, because he very seldom 
brought her into any scrapes with his father ; he was so 
cautious and prudent, and had the art of “keeping a calm 
sough” about any difficulty he might be in. With all her 
dutiful sense of the obligation, which her husband enforced 
upon her, to notice and tell him everything that was going 
wrong in the household, and especially among his children, 
Mrs. Bradshaw, somehow, contrived to be honestly blind to a 
good deal that was not praiseworthy in Master Richard. 

Mr. Bradshaw came in before long, bringing with him 
Mr. Farquhar. Jemima had been talking to Ruth with some 
interest before then ; but, on seeing Mr. Farquhar, she bent 
her head down over her work, went a little paler, and turned 
obstinately silent. Mr. Bradshaw longed to command her 
to speak ; but even he had a suspicion that what she might 
say, when so commanded, might be rather worse in its effect 
than her gloomy silence ; so he held his peace, and a dis- 
contented, angry kind of peace it was. Mrs. Bradshaw saw 
that something was wrong, but could not tell what; only 
she became every moment more trembling, and nervous, and 
irritable, and sent Mary and Elizabeth off on all sorts of 
contradictory errands to the servants, and made the tea 
twice as strong, and sweetened it twice as much as usual, 
in hopes of pacifying her husband with good things. 

Mr. Farquhar had gone for the last time, or so he 
thought. He had resolved (for the fifth time) that he would 
go and watch Jemima once more, and if her temper got the 
better of her, and she showed the old sullenness again, and 
gave the old proofs of indifference to his good opinion, he 
would give her up altogether, and seek a wife elsewhere. 
He sat watching her with folded arms, and in silence. Alto- 
gether they were a pleasant family party ! 

230 


Jemima refuses to be Managed 

Jemima wanted to wind a skein of wool. Mr. Farquhar 
saw it, and came to her, anxious to do her this little service. 
She turned away pettishly, and asked Ruth to hold it for her. 

Ruth was hurt for Mr. Farquhar, and looked sorrowfully 
at Jemima ; but Jemima would not see her glance of 
upbraiding, as Ruth, hoping that she would relent, delayed 
a little to comply with her request. Mr. Farquhar did ; and 
went back to his seat to watch them both. He saw Jemima 
turbulent and stormy in look ; he saw Ruth, to all appearance, 
heavenly calm as the angels, or with only that little tinge of 
sorrow which her friend’s behaviour had called forth. He 
saw the unusual beauty of her face and form, which he had 
never noticed before ; and he saw Jemima, with all the 
brilliancy she once possessed in eyes and complexion, 
dimmed and faded. He watched Ruth, speaking low and 
soft to the little girls, who seemed to come to her in every 
difficulty, and he remarked her gentle firmness when their 
bed-time came, and they pleaded to stay up longer (their 
father was absent in his counting-house, or they would not 
have dared to do so). He liked Ruth’s soft, distinct, un- 
wavering “ No ! you must go. You must keep to what is 
right,” far better than the good-natured yielding to entreaty 
he had formerly admired in Jemima. He was wandering off 
into this comparison, while Ruth with delicate and uncon- 
scious tact, was trying to lead Jemima into some subject 
which should take her away from the thoughts, whatever 
they were, that made her so ungracious and rude. 

Jemima was ashamed of herself before Ruth, in a way 
which she had never been before any one else. She valued 
Ruth’s good opinion so highly, that she dreaded lest her 
friend should perceive her faults. She put a check upon 
herself — a check at first ; but after a little time she had for- 
gotten something of her trouble, and listened to Ruth, and 
questioned her about Leonard, and smiled at his little witti- 
cisms ; and only the sighs, that would come up from the 
very force of habit, brought back the consciousness of her 
unhappiness. Before the end of the evening, Jemima had 

231 


Ruth 

allowed herself to speak to Mr. Farquhar in the old way — 
questioning, differing, disputing. She was recalled to the 
remembrance of that miserable conversation by the entrance 
of her father. After that she was silent. But he had seen 
her face more animated, and bright with a smile, as she 
spoke to Mr. Farquhar ; and although he regretted the loss 
of her complexion (for she was still very pale), he was highly 
pleased with the success of his project. He never doubted 
but that Ruth had given her some sort of private exhortation 
to behave better. He could not have understood the pretty 
art with which, by simply banishing unpleasant subjects, 
and throwing a wholesome natural sunlit tone over others, 
Ruth had insensibly drawn Jemima out of her gloom. He 
resolved to buy Mrs. Denbigh a handsome silk gown the very 
next day. He did not believe she had a silk gown, poor 
creature ! He had noticed that dark-grey stuff, this long, 
long time, as her Sunday dress. He liked the colour; the 
silk one should be just the same tinge. Then he thought 
that it would, perhaps, be better to choose a lighter shade, 
one which might be noticed as different to the old gown. 
For he had no doubt she would like to have it remarked, and, 
perhaps, would not object to tell people, that it was a present 
from Mr. Bradshaw — a token of his approbation. He smiled 
a little to himself as he thought of this additional source of 
pleasure to Ruth. She, in the meantime, was getting up to 
go home. While Jemima was lighting the bed-candle at the 
lamp, Ruth came round to bid good-night. Mr. Bradshaw 
could not allow her to remain till the morrow uncertain 
whether he was satisfied or not. 

“ Good-night, Mrs. Denbigh,” said he. “ Good-night. 
Thank you. I am obliged to you — I am exceedingly obliged 
to you.” 

He laid emphasis on these words, for he was pleased to 
see Mr. Farquhar step forward to help Jemima in her little 
office. 

Mr. Farquhar offered to accompany Ruth home ; but 
the streets that intervened between Mr. Bradshaw’s and the 

232 


Jemima refuses to be Managed 

Chapel-house were so quiet that he desisted, when he learnt 
from Ruth’s manner how much she disliked his proposal. 
Mr. Bradshaw, too, instantly observed — 

“ Oh ! Mrs. Denbigh need not trouble you, Farquhar. I 
have servants at liberty at any moment to attend on her, if 
she wishes it.” 

In fact, he wanted to make hay while the sun shone, and 
to detain Mr. Farquhar a little longer, now that Jemima 
was so gracious. She went upstairs with Ruth to help her 
to put on her things. 

“ Dear Jemima ! ” said Ruth, “ I am so glad to see you 
looking better to-night ! You quite frightened me this 
morning, you looked so ill.” 

“ Did I ? ” replied Jemima. “ 0 Ruth ! I have been so 
unhappy lately. I want you to come and put me to rights,” 
she continued, half smiling. “ You know I’m a sort of out- 
pupil of yours, though we are so nearly of an age. You 
ought to lecture me, and make me good.” 

“ Should I, dear ? ” said Ruth. “ I don’t think I’m the 
one to do it.” 

“ Oh yes ! you are — you’ve done me good to-night.” 

“ Well, if I can do anything for you, tell me what it is ? ” 
asked Ruth tenderly. 

“ Oh, not now — not now,” replied Jemima. “ I could 
not tell you here. It’s a long story, and I don’t know 
that I can tell you at all. Mamma might come up at any 
moment, and papa would be sure to ask what we had been 
talking about so long.” 

“ Take your own time, love,” said Ruth ; “ only remember, 
as far as I can, how glad I am to help you.” 

“ You’re too good, my darling ! ” said Jemima fondly. 

“ Don’t say so,” replied Ruth earnestly, almost as if she 
were afraid. “ God knows I am not.” 

“ Well ! we’re none of us too good,” answered Jemima ; 
“ I know that. But you are very good. Nay, I won’t call 
you so, if it makes you look so miserable. But come away 
downstairs.” 


233 


Ruth 

With the fragrance of Ruth’s sweetness lingering about 
her, Jemima was her best self during the next half-hour. 
Mr. Bradshaw was more and more pleased, and raised the 
price of the silk, which he was going to give Ruth, sixpence 
a yard during the time. Mr. Farquhar went home through 
the garden-way, happier than he had been this long time. 
He even caught himself humming the old refrain : 

“ On revient, on revient toujours, 

A ses premiers amours.” 

But as soon as he was aware of what he was doing, he 
cleared away the remnants of the song into a cough, which 
was sonorous, if not perfectly real. 


CHAPTER XXI 

MR. FARQUHAR’s ATTENTIONS TRANSFERRED 

The next morning, as Jemima and her mother sat at their 
work, it came into the head of the former to remember her 
father’s very marked way of thanking Ruth the evening 
before. 

What a favourite Mrs. Denbigh is with papa ! ” said she. 
“ T am sure I don’t wonder at it. Did you notice, mamma, 
how he thanked her for coming here last night ? ” 

“Yes, dear; but I don’t think it was all” Mrs. 

Bradshaw stopped short. She was never certain if it was 
right or wrong to say anything. 

“Not all what ? ” asked Jemima, when she saw her 
mother was not going to finish the sentence. 

“Not all because Mrs. Denbigh came to tea here,” replied 
Mrs. Bradshaw. 

“ Why, what else could he be thanking her for ? What 
has she done ? asked J emima, stimulated to curiosity by 
her mother’s hesitating manner. 

234 


Attentions Transferred 

“ I don’t know if I ought to tell you,” said Mrs. 
Bradshaw. 

“ Oh, very well ! ” said Jemima, rather annoyed. 

“Nay, dear! your papa never said I was not to tell; 
perhaps I may.” 

“ Never mind ; I don’t want to hear,” in a piqued tone. 

There was silence for a little while. Jemima was trying 
to think of something else, but her thoughts would revert to 
the wonder what Mrs. Denbigh could have done for her 
father. 

“ I think I may tell you, though,” said Mrs. Bradshaw, 
half questioning. 

Jemima had the honour not to urge any confidence, 
but she was too curious to take any active step towards 
repressing it. 

Mrs. Bradshaw went on — “ I think you deserve to know. 
It is partly your doing that papa is so pleased with Mrs. 
Denbigh. He is going to buy her a silk gown this morning, 
and I think you ought to know why.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Jemima. 

“ Because papa is so pleased to find that you mind what 
she says.” 

“ I mind what she says ! To be sure I do, and always 
did. But why should papa give her a gown for that? I 
think he ought to give it me rather,” said Jemima, half 
laughing. 

“Iam sure he would, dear; he will give you one, I am 
certain, if you want one. He was so pleased to see you like 
your old self to Mr. Farquhar last night. We neither of us 
could think what had come over you this last month ; but 
now all seems right.” 

A dark cloud came over Jemima’s face. She did not like 
this close observation and constant comment upon her 
manners ; and what had Ruth to do with it ? 

“I am glad you were pleased,” said she, very coldly. 
Then, after a pause, she added, “ But you have not told me 
what Mrs. Denbigh had to do with my good behaviour.” 

235 


Ruth 

“ Did not she speak to you about it ? ” asked Mrs. 
Bradshaw, looking up. 

“ No. Why should she ? She has no right to criticise 
what I do. She would not be so impertinent,” said Jemima, 
feeling very uncomfortable and suspicious. 

“ Yes, love ! she would have had a right, for papa had 
desired her to do it.” 

“ Papa desired her ! What do you mean, mamma ? ” 

“ Oh dear ! I dare say I should not have told you,” said 
Mrs. Bradshaw, perceiving, from Jemima’s tone of voice, 
that something had gone wrong. “ Only you spoke as if it 
would be impertinent in Mrs. Denbigh, and I am sure she 
would not do anything that was impertinent. You know, 
it would be but right for her to do what papa told her ; and 
he said a great deal to her, the other day, about finding out 
why you were so cross, and bringing you right. And you 
are right now, dear ! ” said Mrs. Bradshaw soothingly, 
thinking that Jemima was annoyed (like a good child) at the 
recollection of how naughty she had been. 

“Then papa is going to give Mrs. Denbigh a gown 
because I was civil to Mr. Farquhar last night ? ” 

“ Yes, dear ! ” said Mrs. Bradshaw, more and more 
frightened at Jemima’s angry manner of speaking — low- 
toned, but very indignant. 

Jemima remembered, with smouldered anger, Buth’s 
pleading way of wiling her from her sullenness the night 
before. Management everywhere! but in this case it was 
peculiarly revolting ; so much so, that she could hardly bear 
to believe that the seemingly transparent Ruth had lent 
herself to it. 

“ Are you sure, mamma, that papa asked Mrs. Denbigh 
to make me behave differently ? It seems so strange.” 

“Iam quite sure. He spoke to her last Friday morning 
in the study. I remember it was Friday, because Mrs. Dean 
was working here.” 

Jemima remembered now that she had gone into the 
schoolroom on the Friday, and found her sisters lounging 

236 


Attentions Transferred 

about, and wondering what papa could possibly want with 
Mrs. Denbigh. 

After this conversation Jemima repulsed all Ruth’s timid 
efforts to ascertain the cause of her disturbance, and to help 
her if she could. Ruth’s tender, sympathising manner, as 
she saw J emima daily looking more wretched, was distasteful 
to the latter in the highest degree. She could not say that 
Mrs. Denbigh’s conduct was positively wrong — it might 
even be quite right ; but it was inexpressibly repugnant to 
her to think of her father consulting with a stranger (a week 
ago she almost considered Ruth as a sister) how to manage 
his daughter, so as to obtain the end he wished for; yes, 
even if that end was for her own good. 

She was thankful and glad to see a brown paper parcel 
lying on the hall-table, with a note in Ruth’s handwriting, 
addressed to her father. She knew what it was, the grey silk 
dress. That she was sure Ruth would never accept. 

No one henceforward could induce Jemima to enter into 
conversation with Mr. Farquhar. She suspected manoeuvring 
in the simplest actions, and was miserable in this constant 
state of suspicion. She would not allow herself to like Mr. 
Farquhar, even when he said things the most after her own 
heart. She heard him, one evening, talking with her father 
about the principles of trade. Her father stood out for the 
keenest, sharpest work, consistent with honesty ; if he had 
not been her father, she would, perhaps, have thought some 
of his sayings inconsistent with true Christian honesty. He 
was for driving hard bargains, exacting interest and payment 
of just bills to a day. That was (he said) the only way in 
which trade could be conducted. Once allow a margin of 
uncertainty, or where feelings, instead of maxims, were to 
be the guide, and all hope of there ever being any good men 
of business was ended. 

“ Suppose a delay of a month in requiring payment might 
save a man’s credit — prevent his becoming a bankrupt? 
put in Mr. Farquhar. 

“ I would not give it him. I would let him have money 
237 


Ruth 

to set up again as soon as he had passed the Bankruptcy 
Court ; if he never passed, I might, in some cases, make 
him an allowance ; but I would always keep my justice and 
my charity separate.” 

“ And yet charity (in your sense of the word) degrades ; 
justice, tempered with mercy and consideration, elevates.” 

“ That is not justice — justice is certain and inflexible. 
No ! Mr. Farquhar, you must not allow any Quixotic 
notions to mingle with your conduct as a tradesman.” 

And so they went on ; Jemima’s face glowing with 
sympathy in all Mr. Farquhar said ; till once, on looking up 
suddenly with sparkling eyes, she saw a glance of her father’s, 
which told her, as plain as words can say, that he was 
watching the effect of Mr. Farquhar’s speeches upon his 
daughter. She was chilled thenceforward ; she thought her 
father prolonged the argument, in order to call out those 
sentiments which he knew would most recommend his 
partner to his daughter. She would so fain have let herself 
love Mr. Farquhar ; but this constant manoeuvring, in which 
she did not feel clear that he did not take a passive part, 
made her sick at heart. She even wished that they might 
not go through the form of pretending to try to gain her 
consent to the marriage, if it involved all this premeditated 
action and speech-making — such moving about of every one 
into their right places, like pieces at chess. She felt as if 
she would rather be bought openly, like an Oriental daughter, 
where no one is degraded in their own eyes by being parties 
to such a contract. The consequences of all this “ admirable 
management ” of Mr. Bradshaw’s would have been very 
unfortunate to Mr. Farquhar (who was innocent of all 
connivance in any of the plots — indeed would have been as 
much annoyed at them as Jemima, had he been aware of 
them), but that the impression made upon him by Ruth on 
the evening I have so lately described was deepened by the 
contrast which her behaviour made to Miss Bradshaw’s on 
one or two more recent occasions. 

There was no use, he thought, in continuing attentions 
238 


Attentions T ransferred 

so evidently distasteful to Jemima. To her, a young girl 
hardly out of the schoolroom, he probably appeared like an 
old man ; and he might even lose the friendship with which 
she used to regard him, and which was, and ever would be, 
very dear to him, if he persevered in trying to be considered 
as a lover. He should always feel affectionately towards 
her ; her very faults gave her an interest in his eyes, for 
which he had blamed himself most conscientiously and most 
uselessly when he was looking upon her as his future wife, 
but which the said conscience would learn to approve of 
when she sank down to the place of a young friend, over 
whom he might exercise a good and salutary interest. Mrs. 
Denbigh, if not many months older in years, had known 
sorrow and cares so early that she was much older in 
character. Besides, her shy reserve, and her quiet daily 
walk within the lines of duty, were much in accordance with 
Mr. Farquhar’s notion of what a wife should be. Still, it 
was a wrench to take his affections away from Jemima. If 
she had not helped him to do so by every means in her 
power, he could never have accomplished it. 

Yes ! by every means in her power had Jemima alienated 
her lover, her beloved — for so he was in fact. And now her 
quicksighted eyes saw he was gone for ever — past recall : 
for did not her jealous, sore heart feel, even before he himself 
was conscious of the fact, that he was drawn towards 
sweet, lovely, composed, and dignified Buth — one who always 
thought before she spoke (as Mr. Farquhar used to bid 
Jemima do) — who never was tempted by sudden impulse, 
but walked the world calm and self-governed. What now 
availed Jemima’s reproaches, as she remembered the days 
when he had watched her with earnest, attentive eyes, as he 
now watched Ruth ; and the times since, when, led astray 
by her morbid fancy, she had turned away from all his 
advances ! 

“ It was only in March — last March, he called me * dear 
Jemima.’ Ah! don’t I remember it well? The pretty 
nosegay of greenhouse flowers that he gave me in exchange 

239 


Ruth 

for the wild daffodils — and how he seemed to care for the 
flowers I gave him — and how he looked at me, and thanked 
me — that is all gone and over now.” 

Her sisters came in bright and glowing. 

“ O Jemima, how nice and cool yon are, sitting in this 
shady room ! ” (she had felt it even chilly). “ We have been 
such a long walk ! We are so tired. It is so hot.” 

“ Why did you go, then ? ” said she. 

“ Oh ! we wanted to go. We would not have stayed at 
home on any account. It has been so pleasant,” said 
Mary. 

“ We’ve been to Scaurside Wood, to gather wild straw- 
berries,” said Elizabeth. “ Such a quantity ! We’ve left a 
whole basketful in the dairy. Mr. Farquhar says he’ll teach 
us how to dress them in the way he learnt in Germany, if 
we can get him some hock. Do you think papa will let us 
have some ? ” 

“Was Mr. Farquhar with you ? ” asked Jemima, a dull 
light coming into her eyes. 

“ Yes ; we told him this morning that mamma wanted us 
to take some old linen to the lame man at Scaurside Farm, 
and that we meant to coax Mrs. Denbigh to let us go into 
the wood and gather strawberries,” said Elizabeth. 

“ I thought he would make some excuse and come,” said 
the quick-witted Mary, as eager and thoughtless an observer 
of one love-affair as of another, and quite forgetting that, not 
many weeks ago, she hal fancied an attachment between 
him and Jemima. 

“ Did you ? I did not,” replied Elizabeth. “ At least I 
never thought about it. I was quite startled when I heard 
his horse’s feet behind us on the road.” 

“ He said he was going to the farm, and could take our 
basket. Was it not kind of him ? ” Jemima did not answer, 
so Mary continued — 

“ You know it’s a great pull up to the farm, and we were 
so hot already. The road was quite white and baked ; it 
hurt my eyes terribly. I was so glad when Mrs. Denbigh 

240 


Attentions Transferred 

said we might turn into the wood. The light was quite green 
there, the branches are so thick overhead.” 

“And there are whole beds of wild strawberries,” said 
Elizabeth, taking up the tale now Mary was out of breath. 
Mary fanned herself with her bonnet, while Elizabeth 
went on — 

“ You know where the grey rock crops out, don’t you, 
Jemima ? Well, there was a complete carpet of strawberry- 
runners. So pretty ! And we could hardly step without 
treading the little bright scarlet berries under foot.” 

“We did so wish for Leonard,” put in Mary. 

“ Yes ! but Mrs. Denbigh gathered a great many for him. 
And Mr. Farquhar gave her all his.” 

“ I thought you said he had gone on to Dawson’s farm,” 
said Jemima. 

“ Oh yes ! he just went up there ; and then he left his horse 
there, like a wise man, and came to us in the pretty, cool, 
green wood. O Jemima ! it was so pretty — little flecks of 
light coming down here and there through the leaves, and 
quivering on the ground. You must go with us to-morrow.” 

“Yes,” said Mary, “we’re going again to-morrow. We 
could not gather nearly all the strawberries.” 

“ And Leonard is to go too, to-morrow.” 

“ Yes ! we thought of such a capital plan. That’s to say, 
Mr. Farquhar thought of it — we wanted to carry Leonard up 
the hill in a king’s cushion, but Mrs. Denbigh would not 
hear of it.” 

“ She said it would tire us so ; and yet she wanted him 
to gather strawberries ! ” 

“ And so,” interrupted Mary, for by this time the two 
girls were almost speaking together, “ Mr. Farquhar is to 
bring him up before him on his horse.” 

“ You’ll go with us, won’t you, dear Jemima ? ” asked 
Elizabeth : “it will be at ” 

“No \ I can’t go,” said Jemima abruptly. “ Don’t ask 
me — I can t. 

The little girls were hushed into silence by her manner ; 

241 R 


Ruth 

for whatever she might be to those above her in age and 
position, to those below her Jemima was almost invariably 
gentle. She felt that they were wondering at her. 

“ Go upstairs and take off your things. You know papa 
does not like you to come into this room in the shoes in 
which you have been out.” 

She was glad to cut her sisters short in the details which 
they were so mercilessly inflicting — details which she must 
harden herself to, before she could hear them quietly and 
unmoved. She saw that she had lost her place as the first 
object in Mr. Farquhar’s eyes — a position she had hardly 
cared for while she was secure in the enjoyment of it ; but the 
charm of it now was redoubled, in her acute sense of how 
she had forfeited it by her own doing, and her own fault. 
For if he were the cold, calculating man her father had 
believed him to be, and had represented him as being to 
her, would he care for a portionless widow in humble cir- 
cumstances like Mrs. Denbigh — no money, no connection, 
encumbered with her boy ? The very action which proved 
Mr. Farquhar to be lost to Jemima reinstated him on his 
throne in her fancy. And she must go on in hushed quiet- 
ness, quivering with every fresh token of his preference for 
another ? That other, too, one so infinitely more worthy of 
him than herself ; so that she could not have even the poor 
comfort of thinking that he had no discrimination, and was 
throwing himself away on a common or worthless person. 
Buth was beautiful, gentle, good, and conscientious. The 
hot colour flushed up into Jemima’s sallow face as she 
became aware that, even while she acknowledged these 
excellences on Mrs. Denbigh’s part, she hated her. The 
recollection of her marble face wearied her even to sickness ; 
the tones of her low voice were irritating from their very 
softness. Her goodness, undoubted as it was, was more 
distasteful than many faults which had more savour of 
human struggle in them. 

“ What was this terrible demon in her heart ? ” asked 
Jemima’s better angel. “Was she, indeed, given up to 

242 


Attentions Transferred 

possession ? Was not this the old stinging hatred which 
had prompted so many crimes? The hatred of all sweet 
virtues which might win the love denied to us ? The old 
anger that wrought in the elder brother’s heart, till it ended 
in the murder of the gentle Abel, while yet the world was 
young ? ” 

“ O God! help me ! I did not know I was so wicked,” 
cried Jemima aloud in her agony. It had been a terrible 
glimpse into the dark, lurid gulf — the capability for evil, in 
her heart. She wrestled with the demon, but he would not 
depart : it was to be a struggle whether or not she was to be 
given up to him, in this her time of sore temptation. 

All the next day long she sat and pictured the happy 
strawberry-gathering going on, even then, in pleasant Scaur- 
side Wood. Every touch of fancy which could heighten her 
idea of their enjoyment, and of Mr. Farquhar’s attention 
to the blushing, conscious Euth — every such touch which 
would add a pang to her self-reproach and keen jealousy, 
was added by her imagination. She got up and walked 
about, to try and stop her overbusy fancy by bodily exer- 
cise. But she had eaten little all day, and was weak and 
faint in the intense heat of the sunny garden. Even the 
long grass-walk under the filbert-hedge was parched and 
dry in the glowing August sun. Yet her sisters found her 
there when they returned, walking quickly up and down, as 
if to warm herself on some winter’s day. They were very 
weary ; and not half so communicative as on the day before, 
now that Jemima was craving for every detail to add to her 
agony. 

“Yes! Leonard came up before Mr. Farquhar. Oh! 
how hot it is, Jemima ! Bo sit down, and I’ll tell you about 
it, but I can’t if you keep walking so.” 

“I can’t sit still to-day,” said Jemima, springing up 
from the turf as soon as she had sat down. “ Tell me ! I 
can hear you while I walk about.’ 

“ Oh ! but I can’t shout ; I can hardly speak, I am so 

tired. Mr. Farquhar brought Leonard ” 

243 


Ruth 

“You’ve told roe that before,” said Jemima sharply. 

“ Well, I don’t know what else to tell. Somebody had 
been since yesterday, and gathered nearly all the straw- 
berries off the grey rock. Jemima ! Jemima ! ” said Eliza- 
beth faintly, “ I am so dizzy — I think I am ill.” 

The next minute the tired girl lay swooning on the 
grass. It was an outlet for Jemima’s fierce energy. With 
a strength she had never again, and never had known 
before, she lifted up her fainting sister, and, bidding Mary 
run and clear the way, she carried her in through the open 
garden-door, up the wide old-fashioned stairs, and laid her 
on the bed in her own room, where the breeze from the 
window came softly and pleasantly through the green shade 
of the vine-leaves and jessamine. 

“ Give me the water. Run for mamma, Mary,” said 
Jemima, as she saw that the fainting-fit did not yield to 
the usual remedy of a horizontal position and the water- 
sprinkling. 

“ Dear ! dear Lizzie ! ” said Jemima, kissing the pale, 
unconscious face. “ I think you loved me, darling.” 

The long walk on the hot day had been too much for the 
delicate Elizabeth, who was fast outgrowing her strength. 
It was many days before she regained any portion of her 
spirit and vigour. After that fainting-fit she lay listless and 
weary, without appetite or interest, through the long sunny 
autumn weather, on the bed or on the couch in Jemima’s 
room, whither she had been carried at first. It was a com- 
fort to Mrs. Bradshaw to be able at once to discover what it 
was that had knocked up Elizabeth ; she did not rest easily 
until she had settled upon a cause for every ailment or 
illness in the family. It was a stern consolation to Mr. 
Bradshaw, during his time of anxiety respecting his daughter, 
to be able to blame somebody. He could not, like his wife 
have taken comfort from an inanimate fact ; he wanted the 
satisfaction of feeling that some one had been in fault, or 
else this never could have happened. Poor Ruth did not 
peed his implied reproaches. When she saw her gentle 

244 


Attentions Transferred 

Elizabeth lying feeble and languid, her heart blamed her 
for thoughtlessness so severely as to make her take all Mr. 
Bradshaw s words and hints as too light censure for the 
careless way in which, to please her own child, she had 
allowed her two pupils to fatigue themselves with such long 
walks. She begged hard to take her share of nursing. 
Every spare moment she went to Mr. Bradshaw’s, and 
asked, with earnest humility, to be allowed to pass them 
with Elizabeth ; and, as it was often a relief to have her 
assistance, Mrs. Bradshaw received these entreaties very 
kindly, and desired her to go upstairs, where Elizabeth’s 
pale countenance brightened when she saw her, but where 
Jemima sat in silent annoyance that her own room was 
now become open ground for one, whom her heart rose up 
against, to enter in and be welcomed. Whether it was that 
Buth, who was not an inmate of the house, brought with 
her a fresher air, more change of thought to the invalid, I 
do not know, but Elizabeth always gave her a peculiarly 
tender greeting ; and if she had sunk down into languid 
fatigue, in spite of all Jemima’s endeavours to interest her, 
she roused up into animation when Ruth came in with a 
flower, a book, or a brown and ruddy pear, sending out the 
warm fragrance it retained from the sunny garden-wall at 
Chapel-house. 

The jealous dislike which Jemima was allowing to grow 
up in her heart against Buth was, as she thought, never 
shown in word or deed. She was cold in manner, because 
she could not be hypocritical ; but her words were polite 
and kind in purport ; and she took pains to make her 
actions the same as formerly. But rule and line may 
measure out the figure of a man ; it is the soul that gives 
it life ; and there was no soul, no inner meaning, breathing 
out in Jemima’s actions. Buth felt the change acutely. 
She suffered from it some time before she ventured to ask 
what had occasioned it. One day she took Miss Bradshaw 
by surprise, when they were alone together for a few 
minutes, by asking her if she had vexed her in any 

245 


Ruth 

way, she was so changed. It is sad when friendship has 
cooled so far as to render such a question necessary. 
Jemima went rather paler than usual, and then made 
answer — 

“ Changed ! How do you mean ? How am I 
changed? What do I say or do different from what I 
used to do ? ” 

But the tone was so constrained and cold, that Ruth’s 
heart sank within her. She knew now, as well as words 
could have told her, that not only had the old feeling of love 
passed away from Jemima, but that it had gone unregretted, 
and no attempt had been made to recall it. Love was very 
precious to Ruth now, as of old time. It was one of the 
faults of her nature to be ready to make any sacrifices for 
those who loved her, and to value affection almost above 
its price. She had yet to learn the lesson, that it is more 
blessed to love than to be beloved; and, lonely as the 
impressible years of her youth had been — without parents, 
without brother or sister — it was, perhaps, no wonder that 
she clung tenaciously to every symptom of regard, and could 
not relinquish the love of any one without a pang. 

The doctor who was called in to Elizabeth prescribed 
sea-air as the best means of recruiting her strength. Mr. 
Bradshaw (who liked to spend money ostentatiously) went 
down straight to Abermouth, and engaged a house for the 
remainder of the autumn ; for, as he told the medical man, 
money was no object to him in comparison with his 
children’s health ; and the doctor cared too little about the 
mode in which his remedy was administered to tell Mr. 
Bradshaw that lodgings would have done as well, or better, 
than the complete house he had seen fit to take. For it 
was now necessary to engage servants, and take much 
trouble, which might have been obviated, and Elizabeth’s 
removal effected more quietly and speedily, if she had gone 
into lodgings. As it was, she was weary of hearing all the 
planning and talking, and deciding, and undeciding, and 
redeciding, before it was possible for her to go. Her only 

246 


Attentions Transferred 

comfort was in the thought that dear Mrs. Denbigh was to 
go with her. 

It had not been entirely by way of pompously spending 
his money that Mr. Bradshaw had engaged this seaside 
house. He was glad to get his little girls and their gover- 
ness out of the way ; for a busy time was impending, when 
he should want his head clear for electioneering purposes, 
and his house clear for electioneering hospitality. He was 
the mover of a project for bringing forward a man on the 
Liberal and Dissenting interest, to contest the election with 
the old Tory member, who had on several successive 
occasions walked over the course, as he and his family 
owned half the town, and votes and rent were paid alike to 
the landlord. 

Kings of Eccleston had Mr. Cranworth and his ancestors 
been this many a long year ; their right was so little disputed 
that they never thought of acknowledging the allegiance so 
readily paid to them. The old feudal feeling between land- 
owner and tenant did not quake prophetically at the intro- 
duction of manufactures ; the Cranworth family ignored the 
growing power of the manufacturers, more especially as the 
principal person engaged in the trade was a Dissenter. But 
notwithstanding this lack of patronage from the one great 
family in the neighbourhood, the business flourished, in- 
creased, and spread wide ; and the Dissenting head thereof 
looked around, about the time of which I speak, and felt 
himself powerful enough to defy the great Cranworth interest 
even in their hereditary stronghold, and, by so doing, avenge 
the slights of many years — slights which rankled in Mr. 
Bradshaw’s mind as much as if he did not go to chapel 
twice every Sunday, and pay the largest pew-rent of any 
member of Mr. Benson’s congregation. 

Accordingly, Mr. Bradshaw had applied to one of the 
Liberal parliamentary agents in London — a man whose only 
principle was to do wrong on the Liberal side ; he would not 
act, right or wrong, for a Tory, but for a Whig the latitude 
of his conscience had never yet been discovered. It was 

247 


Ruth 

possible Mr. Bradshaw was not aware of the character of 
this agent ; at any rate, he knew he was the man for his 
purpose, which was to hear of some one who would come 
forward as a candidate for the representation of Eccleston 
on the Dissenting interest. 

“ There are in round numbers about six hundred voters,” 
said he; “two hundred are decidedly in the Cranworth 
interest — dare not offend Mr. Cranworth, poor souls ! Two 
hundred more we may calculate upon as pretty certain — 
factory hands, or people connected with our trade in some 
way or another — who are indignant at the stubborn way in 
which Cranworth has contested the right of water; two 
hundred are doubtful.” 

“ Don’t much care either way,” said the parliamentary 
agent. “ Of course, we must make them care.” 

Mr. Bradshaw rather shrank from the knowing look with 
which this was said. He hoped that Mr. Pilson did not 
mean to allude to bribery ; but he did not express this hope, 
because he thought it would deter the agent from using this 
means, and it was possible it might prove to be the only 
way. And if he (Mr. Bradshaw) once embarked on such an 
enterprise, there must be no failure. By some expedient or 
another, success must be certain, or he could have nothing 
to do with it. 

The parliamentary agent was well accustomed to deal 
with all kinds and shades of scruples. He was most at home 
with men who had none ; but still he could allow for human 
weakness ; and he perfectly understood Mr. Bradshaw. 

“ I have a notion I know of a man who will just suit 
your purpose. Plenty of money — does not know what to do 
with it, in fact — tired of yachting, travelling ; wants some- 
thing new. I heard, through some of the means of intelli- 
gence I employ, that not very long ago he was wishing for a 
seat in Parliament.” 

“ A Liberal ? ” said Mr. Bradshaw. 

“ Decidedly. Belongs to a family who were in the Long 
Parliament in their day.” 


248 


The Liberal Candidate 

Mr. Bradshaw rubbed bis bands. 

“ Dissenter ? •” asked be. 

“ No, no ! Not so far as that. But very lax Church.” 

“ What is his name ? ” asked Mr. Bradshaw eagerly. 

“ Excuse me. Until I am certain that be would like to 
come forward for Eccleston, I think I bad better not mention 
bis name.” 

The anonymous gentleman did like to come forward, and 
bis name proved to be Donne. He and Mr. Bradshaw had 
been in correspondence during all the time of Mr. Ralph 
Cranworth’s illness ; and when be died, everything was 
arranged ready for a start, even before the Cranworths had 
determined who should keep the seat warm till the eldest 
son came of age, for the father was already member for 
the county. Mr. Donne was to come down to canvass in 
person, and was to take up bis abode at Mr. Bradshaw’s ; 
and therefore it was that the seaside bouse, within twenty 
miles’ distance of Eccleston, was found to be so convenient 
as an infirmary and nursery for those members of his family 
who were likely to be useless, if not positive encumbrances, 
during the forthcoming election. 


CHAPTER XXII 

THE LIBERAL CANDIDATE AND HIS PRECURSOR 

Jemima did not know whether she wished to go to Aber- 
mouth or not. She longed for change. She wearied of the 
sights and sounds of home. But yet she could not bear to 
leave the neighbourhood of Mr. Earquhar ; especially as, if 
she went to Abermouth, Ruth would in all probability be 
left to take her holiday at home. 

When Mr. Bradshaw decided that she was to go, Ruth 
tried to feel glad that he gave her the means of repairing her 

249 


Ruth 

fault towards Elizabeth ; and she resolved to watch over the 
two girls most faithfully and carefully, and to do all in her 
power to restore the invalid to health. But a tremor came 
over her whenever she thought of leaving Leonard ; she had 
never quitted him for a day, and it seemed to her as if her 
brooding, constant care was his natural and necessary shelter 
from all evils — from very death itself. She would not go to 
sleep at nights, in order to enjoy the blessed consciousness 
of having him near her; when she was away from him 
teaching her pupils, she kept trying to remember his face, 
and print it deep on her heart, against the time when days 
and days would elapse without her seeing that little darling 
countenance. Miss Benson would wonder to her brother 
that Mr. Bradshaw did not propose that Leonard should 
accompany his mother ; he only begged her not to put such 
an idea into Ruth’s head, as he was sure Mr. Bradshaw had 
no thoughts of doing any such thing, yet to Ruth it might 
be a hope, and then a disappointment. His sister scolded 
him for being so cold-hearted ; but he was full of sympathy, 
although he did not express it, and made some quiet little 
sacrifices in order to set himself at liberty to take Leonard a 
long walking expedition on the day when his mother left 
Eccleston. 

Ruth cried until she could cry no longer, and felt very 
much ashamed of herself as she saw the grave and wonder- 
ing looks of her pupils, whose only feeling on leaving home 
was delight at the idea of Abermouth, and into whose minds 
the possibility of death to any of their beloved ones never 
entered. Ruth dried her eyes, and spoke cheerfully as soon 
as she caught the perplexed expression of their faces ; and 
by the time they arrived at Abermouth she was as much 
delighted with all the new scenery as they were, and found 
it hard work to resist their entreaties to go rambling out on 
the sea-shore at once ; but Elizabeth had undergone more 
fatigue that day than she had had before for many weeks, 
and Ruth was determined to be prudent. 

Meanwhile, the Bradshaws’ house at Eccleston was 
250 


The Liberal Candidate 

being rapidly adapted for electioneering hospitality. The 
partition-wall between the unused drawing-room and the 
schoolroom was broken down, in order to admit of folding- 
doors ; the “ ingenious ” upholsterer of the town (and what 
town does not boast of the upholsterer full of contrivances 
and resources, in opposition to the upholsterer of steady 
capital and no imagination, who looks down with uneasy 
contempt on ingenuity ?) had come in to give his opinion, 
that “ nothing could be easier than to convert a bathroom 
into a bedroom, by the assistance of a little drapery to 
conceal the shower-bath,” the string of which was to be 
carefully concealed, for fear that the unconscious occupier of 
the bath-bed might innocently take it for a bell-rope. The 
professional cook of the town had been already engaged to 
take up her abode for a month at Mr. Bradshaw’s, much to 
the indignation of Betsy, who became a vehement partisan 
of Mr. Cranworth, as soon as ever she heard of the plan of 
her deposition from sovereign authority in the kitchen, in 
which she had reigned supreme for fourteen years. Mrs. 
Bradshaw sighed and bemoaned herself in all her leisure 
moments, which were not many, and wondered why their 
house was to be turned into an inn for this Mr. Donne, 
when everybody knew that the “ George ” was good enough 
for the Cranworths, who never thought of asking the electors 
to the Hall ; — and they had lived at Cranworth ever since 
Julius Caesar’s time, and if that was not being an old family, 
she did not know what was. The excitement soothed 
Jemima. There was something to do. It was she who 
planned with the upholsterer ; it was she who soothed Betsy 
into angry silence ; it was she who persuaded her mother to 
lie down and rest, while she herself went out to buy the 
heterogeneous things required to make the family and house 
presentable to Mr. Donne and his precursor— the friend of 
the parliamentary agent. This latter gentleman never 
appeared himself on the scene of action, but pulled all the 
strings notwithstanding. The friend was a Mr. Hickson, a 
lawyer — a briefless barrister, some people called him; but 

25 1 


Ruth 

he himself professed a great disgust to the law, as a “ great 
sham,” which involved an immensity of underhand action, 
and truckling, and time-serving, and was perfectly encum- 
bered by useless forms and ceremonies, and dead obsolete 
words. So, instead of putting his shoulder to the wheel to 
reform the law, he talked eloquently against it, in such a 
high-priest style, that it was occasionally a matter of surprise 
how he could ever have made a friend of the parliamentary 
agent before mentioned. But, as Mr. Hickson himself said, 
it was the very corruptness of the law which he was fighting 
against, in doing all he could to effect the return of certain 
members to Parliament ; these certain members being 
pledged to effect a reform in the law, according to Mr. 
Hickson. And, as he once observed confidentially, “ If you 
had to destroy a hydra-headed monster, would you measure 
swords with the demon as if he were a gentleman ? Would 
you not rather seize the first weapon that came to hand ? 
And so do I. My great object in life, sir, is to reform 
the law of England, sir. Once get a majority of Liberal 
members into the House, and the thing is done. And I 
consider myself justified, for so high — for, I may say, so 
holy — an end, in using men’s weaknesses to work out my 
purpose. Of course, if men were angels, or even immaculate 
— men invulnerable to bribes, we would not bribe.” 

“ Could you ? ” asked Jemima, for the conversation took 
place at Mr. Bradshaw’s dinner-table, where a few friends 
were gathered together to meet Mr. Hickson ; and among 
them was Mr. Benson. 

“We neither would nor could,” said the ardent barrister, 
disregarding in his vehemence the point of the question, and 
floating on over the bar of argument into the wide ocean of 
his own eloquence : “ As it is — as the world stands, they who 
would succeed even in good deeds must come down to the 
level of expediency ; and therefore, I say once more, if Mr. 
Donne is the man for your purpose, and your purpose is a 
good one, a lofty one, a holy one ” (for Mr. Hickson remem- 
bered the Dissenting character of his little audience, and 

252 


The Liberal Candidate 

privately considered the introduction of the word “ holy ” a 
most happy hit), “ then, I say, we must put all the squeamish 
scruples which might befit Utopia, or some such place, on 
one side and treat men as they are. If they are avaricious, 
it is not we who have made them so ; but as we have to do 
with them, we must consider their failings in dealing with 
them ; if they have been careless or extravagant, or have had 
their little peccadilloes, we must administer the screw. The 
glorious reform of the law will justify, in my idea, all means 
to obtain the end — that law, from the profession of which I 
have withdrawn myself from perhaps a too scrupulous con- 
science ! ” he concluded softly to himself. 

“We are not to do evil that good my come,” said Mr. 
Benson. He was startled at the deep sound of his own voice 
as he uttered these words ; but he had not been speaking 
for some time, and his voice came forth strong and un- 
modulated. 

“ True, sir ; most true,” said Mr. Hickson, bowing. “ I 
honour you for the observation.” And he profited by it, 
insomuch that he confined his further remarks on elections 
to *the end of the table, where he sat near Mr. Bradshaw, and 
one or two equally eager, though not equally influential, 
partisans of Mr. Donne’s. Meanwhile Mr. Farquhar took up 
Mr. Benson’s quotation, at the end where he and Jemima 
sat near to Mrs. Bradshaw and him. 

“ But in the present state of the world, as Mr. Hickson 
says, it is rather difficult to act upon that precept.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Farquhar ! ” said Jemima indignantly, the tears 
springing to her eyes with a feeling of disappointment. For 
she had been chafing under all that Mr. Hickson had been 
saying, perhaps the more for one or two attempts on his part 
at flirtation with the daughter of his wealthy host, which she 
resented with all the loathing of a preoccupied heart ; and 
she had longed to be a man, to speak out her wrath at this 
paltering with right and wrong. She had felt grateful to Mr. 
Benson for his one clear, short precept, coming down with 
a divine force against which there was no appeal ; and now 

*53 


Ruth 

to have Mr. Farquhar taking the side of expediency ! It was 
too bad. 

'‘Nay, Jemima!” said Mr. Farquhar, touched, and 
secretly flattered by the visible pain his speech had given. 
“ Don’t be indignant with me till I have explained myself a 
little more. I don’t understand myself yet ; and it is a very 
intricate question, or so it appears to me, which I was going 
to put, really, earnestly, and humbly, for Mr. Benson’s 
opinion. Now, Mr. Benson, may I ask if you always find it 
practicable to act strictly in accordance with that principle ? 
For if you do not, I am sure no man living can. Are there 
not occasions when it is absolutely necessary to wade through 
evil to good ? I am not speaking in the careless, pre- 
sumptuous way of that man yonder,” said he, lowering his 
voice, and addressing himself to Jemima more exclusively ; 
“ I am really anxious to hear what Mr. Benson will say on 
the subject, for I know no one to whose candid opinion I 
should attach more weight.” 

But Mr. Benson was silent. He did not see Mrs. Brad- 
shaw and Jemima leave the room. He was really, as Mr. 
Farquhar supposed him, completely absent, questioning him- 
self as to how far his practice tallied with his principle. By 
degrees he came to himself ; he found the conversation still 
turned on the election ; and Mr. Hickson, who felt that he 
had jarred against the little minister’s principles, and yet 
knew, from the carte du pays which the scouts of the parlia- 
mentary agent had given him, that Mr. Benson was a person 
to be conciliated, on account of his influence over many of 
the working-people, began to ask him questions with an air 
of deferring to superior knowledge, that almost surprised Mr. 
Bradshaw, who had been accustomed to treat “ Benson ” in 
a very different fashion, of civil condescending indulgence, 
just as one listens to a child who can have had no opportuni- 
ties of knowing better. 

At the end of a conversation that Mr. Hickson held with 
Mr. Benson, on a subject in which the latter was really inte- 
rested, and on which he had expressed himself at some length, 

254 


The Liberal Candidate 

the young barrister turned to Mr. Bradshaw and said very 
audibly — • 

“ I wish Donne had been here. This conversation during 
the last half-hour would have interested him almost as much 
as it has done me.” 

Mr. Bradshaw little guessed the truth, that Mr. Donne 
was, at that very moment, coaching up the various subjects 
of public interest at Eccleston, and privately cursing the 
particular subject on which Mr. Benson had been holding 
forth, as being an unintelligible piece of Quixotism ; or the 
leading Dissenter of the town need not have experienced a 
pang of jealousy at the possible future admiration his minister 
might excite in the possible future member for Eccleston. 
And if Mr. Benson had been clairvoyant, he need not have 
made an especial subject of gratitude out of the likelihood 
that he might have an opportunity of so far interesting Mr. 
Donne in the condition of the people of Eccleston as to 
induce him to set his face against any attempts at bribery. 

Mr. Benson thought of this half the night through ; and 
ended by determining to write a sermon on the Christian 
view of political duties, which might be good for all, both 
electors and member, to hear on the eve of an election. For 
Mr. Donne was expected at Mr. Bradshaw’s before the next 
Sunday ; and, of course, as Mr. and Miss Benson had settled 
it, he would appear at the chapel with them on that day. 
But the stinging conscience refused to be quieted. No present 
plan of usefulness allayed the aching remembrance of the evil 
he had done that good might come. Not even the look of 
Leonard, as the early dawn fell on him, and Mr. Benson’s 
sleepless eyes saw the rosy glow on his firm, round cheeks ; 
his open mouth, through which the soft, long-drawn breath 
came gently quivering ; and his eyes not fully shut, but 
closed to outward sight — not even the aspect of the quiet, 
innocent child could soothe the troubled spirit. 

Leonard and his mother dreamt of each other that night. 
Her dream of him was one of undefined terror— terror so 
great that it wakened her up, and she strove not to sleep 

255 


Ruth 

again, for fear that ominous, ghastly dream should return. 
He, on the contrary, dreamt of her sitting watching and 
smiling by his bedside, as her gentle self had been many a 
morning ; and when she saw him awake (so it fell out in the 
dream), she smiled still more sweetly, and bending down she 
kissed him, and then spread out large, soft, white-feathered 
wings (which in no way surprised her child — he seemed to 
have known they were there all along), and sailed away 
through the open window far into the blue sky of a summer’s 
day. Leonard wakened up then, and remembered how far 
away she really was — far more distant and inaccessible than 
the beautiful blue sky to which she had betaken herself in 
his dream — and cried himself to sleep again. 

In spite of her absence from her child, which made one 
great and abiding sorrow, Ruth enjoyed her seaside visit 
exceedingly. In the first place, there was the delight of 
seeing Elizabeth’s daily and almost hourly improvement. 
Then, at the doctor’s express orders, there were so few 
lessons to be done, that there was time for the long exploring 
rambles, which all three delighted in. And when the rain 
came on and the storms blew, the house, with its wild sea- 
views, was equally delightful. It was a large house, built on 
the summit of a rock, which nearly overhung the shore below ; 
there was, to be sure, a series of zig-zag tacking paths down 
the face of this rock, but from the house they could not be 
seen. Old or delicate people would have considered the 
situation bleak and exposed ; indeed, the present proprietor 
wanted to dispose of it on this very account ; but by its 
* present inhabitants this exposure and bleakness were called 
by other names, and considered as charms. From every 
part of the rooms they saw the grey storms gather on the 
sea-horizon, and put themselves in marching array ; and 
soon the march became a sweep, and the great dome of the 
heavens was covered with the lurid clouds, between which 
and the vivid green earth below there seemed to come a 
purple atmosphere, making the very threatening beautiful ; 
and by-and-by the house was wrapped in sheets of rain, 

256 


The Liberal Candidate 

shutting out sky, and sea, and inland view; till, of a 
sudden, the storm was gone by, and the heavy rain -drops 
glistened in the sun as they hung on leaf and grass, and 
the “ little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,” 
and there was a pleasant sound of running waters all 
abroad. 

“ Oh ! if papa would but buy this house ! ” exclaimed 
Elizabeth, after one such storm, which she had watched 
silently from the very beginning of the “ little cloud no 
bigger than a man’s hand.” 

“ Mamma would never like it, I am afraid,” said Mary. 
“ She would call our delicious gushes of air draughts, and 
think we should catch cold.” 

“ Jemima would be on our side. But how long Mrs. 
Denbigh is ! I hope she was near enough to the post-office 
when the rain came on ! ” 

Buth had gone to “ the shop ” in the little village, about 
half-a-mile distant, where all letters were left till fetched. 
She only expected one, but that one was to tell her of 
Leonard. She, however, received two ; the unexpected one 
was from Mr. Bradshaw, and the news it contained was, if 
possible, a greater surprise than the letter itself. Mr. Brad- 
shaw informed her that he planned arriving by dinner-time 
the following Saturday at Eagle’s Crag ; and more, that he 
intended bringing Mr. Donne and one or two other gentle- 
men with him, to spend the Sunday there ! The letter went 
on to give every possible direction regarding the household 
preparations. The dinner-hour was fixed to be at six ; but, 
of course, Buth and the girls would have dined long before. 
The (professional) cook would arrive the day before, laden 
with all the provisions that could not be obtained on the spot. 
Buth was to engage a waiter from the inn, and this it was 
that detained her so long. While she sat in the little parlour, 
awaiting the coming of the landlady, she could not help 
wondering why Mr. Bradshaw was bringing this strange 
gentleman to spend two days at Abermouth, and thus giving 
himself so much trouble and fuss of preparation. 

257 


s 


Ruth 

There were so many small reasons that went to make 
up the large one which had convinced Mr. Bradshaw of the 
desirableness of this step, that it was not likely that Ruth 
should guess at one-half of them. In the first place, Miss 
Benson, in the pride and fulness of her heart, had told Mrs. 
Bradshaw what her brother had told her ; how he meant to 
preach upon the Christian view of the duties involved in 
political rights ; and as, of course, Mrs. Bradshaw had told 
Mr. Bradshaw, he began to dislike the idea of attending 
chapel on that Sunday at all ; for he had an uncomfortable 
idea that by the Christian standard — that divine test of the 
true and pure — bribery would not be altogether approved of ; 
and yet he was tacitly coming round to the understanding 
that “ packets ” would be required, for what purpose both he 
and Mr. Donne were to be supposed to remain ignorant. 
But it would be very awkward, so near to the time, if he 
were to be clearly convinced that bribery, however disguised 
by names and words, was in plain terms a sin. And yet he 
knew Mr. Benson had once or twice convinced him against 
his will of certain things, which he had thenceforward found 
it impossible to do, without such great uneasiness of mind, 
that he had left off doing them, which was sadly against his 
interest. And if Mr. Donne (whom he had intended to take 
with him to chapel, as fair Dissenting prey) should also 
become convinced, why, the Cranworths would win the day, 
and he should be the laughing-stock of Eccleston. No! 
in this one case bribery must be allowed — was allowable ; 
but it was a great pity human nature was so corrupt, and if 
his member succeeded, he would double his subscription to 
the schools, in order that the next generation might be taught 
better. There were various other reasons, which strengthened 
Mr. Bradshaw in the bright idea of going down to Aber- 
mouth for the Sunday ; some connected with the out-of-door 
politics, and some with the domestic. For instance, it had 
been the plan of the house to have a cold dinner on the 
Sundays — Mr. Bradshaw had piqued himself on this strict- 
ness — and yet he had an instinctive feeling that Mr. Donne 

258 


The Liberal Candidate 

was not quite the man to partake of cold meat for conscience’ 
sake with cheerful indifference to his fare. 

Mr. Donne had, in fact, taken the Bradshaw household 
a little by surprise. Before he came, Mr. Bradshaw had 
pleased himself with thinking that more unlikely things had 
happened than the espousal of his daughter with the member 
of a small borough. But this pretty airy bubble burst as 
soon as he saw Mr. Donne ; and its very existence was 
forgotten in less than half-an-hour, when he felt the quiet 
but incontestable difference of rank and standard that there 
was, in every respect, between his guest and his own family. 
It was not through any circumstance so palpable, and 
possibly accidental, as the bringing down a servant, whom 
Mr. Donne seemed to consider as much a matter of course 
as a carpet-bag (though the smart gentleman’s arrival 
“ fluttered the Yolscians in Corioli ” considerably more 
than his gentle-spoken master’s). It was nothing like this ; 
it was something indescribable — a quiet being at ease, and 
expecting every one else to be so — an attention to women, 
which was so habitual as to be unconsciously exercised to 
those subordinate persons in Mr. Bradshaw’s family — a 
happy choice of simple and expressive words, some of which 
it must be confessed were slang, but fashionable slang, and 
that makes all the difference — a measured, graceful way of 
utterance, with a style of pronunciation quite different to 
that of Eccleston. All these put together make but a part 
of the indescribable whole which unconsciously affected Mr. 
Bradshaw, and established Mr. Donne in his estimation as 
a creature quite different to any he had seen before, and as 
most unfit to mate with Jemima. Mr. Hickson, who had 
appeared as a model of gentlemanly ease before Mr. Donne’s 
arrival, now became vulgar and coarse in Bradshaw’s eyes. 
And yet, such was the charm of that languid, high-bred 
manner, that Mr. Bradshaw “cottoned” (as he expressed 
it to Mr. Farquhar) to his new candidate at once. He was 
only afraid lest Mr. Donne was too indifferent to all things 
under the sun to care whether he gained or lost the election ; 

259 


Ruth 

but he was reassured after the first conversation they had 
together on the subject. Mr. Donne’s eye lightened with 
an eagerness that was almost fierce, though his tones were 
as musical, and nearly as slow, as ever; and, when Mr. 
Bradshaw alluded distantly to “ probable expenses ” and 
“ packets,” Mr. Donne replied — 

“ Oh, of course ! disagreeable necessity ! Better speak 
as little about such things as possible ; other people can be 
found to arrange all the dirty work. Neither you nor I 
would like to soil our fingers by it, I am sure. Four thou- 
sand pounds are in Mr. Pilson’s hands, and I shall never 
inquire what becomes of them; they may, very probably, 
be absorbed in the law expenses, you know. I shall let it 
be clearly understood from the hustings that I most decidedly 
disapprove of bribery, and leave the rest to Hickson’s 
management. He is accustomed to these sort of things ; 
I am not.” 

Mr. Bradshaw was rather perplexed by this want of 
bustling energy on the part of the new candidate ; and if 
it had not been for the four thousand pounds aforesaid, 
would have doubted whether Mr. Donne cared sufficiently 
for the result of the election. Jemima thought differently. 
She watched her father’s visitor attentively, with something 
like the curious observation which a naturalist bestows on a 
new species of animal. 

“ Do you know what Mr. Donne reminds me of, 
mamma ? ” said she, one day, as the two sat at work, 
while the gentlemen were absent canvassing. 

“ No ! he is not like anybody I ever saw. He quite 
frightens me, by being so ready to open the door for me if 
I am going out of the room, and by giving me a chair when I 
come in. I never saw any one like him. Who is it, Jemima ? ” 

“ Not any person — not any human being, mamma,” said 
Jemima, half smiling. “ Do you remember our stopping at 
Wakefield once, on our way to Scarborough, and there were 
horse-races going on somewhere, and some of the racers were 
in the stables at the inn where we dined ? ’ 

260 


The Liberal Candidate 

“ Yes ! I remember it ; but what about that ? ” 

“ Eichard, somehow, knew one of the jockeys, and, 
as we were coming in from our ramble through the town, 
this man, or boy, asked us to look at one of the racers he had 
the charge of.” 

“ Well, my dear ? ” 

“ Well, mamma ! Mr. Donne is like that horse ! ” 

“ Nonsense, Jemima ; you must not say so. I don’t 
know what your father would say if he heard you likening 
Mr. Donne to a brute.” 

“ Brutes are sometimes very beautiful, mamma. I am 
sure I should think it a compliment to be likened to a race- 
horse, such as the one we saw. But the thing in which 
they are alike, is the sort of repressed eagerness in both.” 

“ Eager ! Why, I should say there never was any one 
cooler than Mr. Donne. Think of the trouble your papa has 
had this month past, and then remember the slow way in 
which Mr. Donne moves when he is going out to canvass, 
and the low, drawling voice in which he questions the 
people who bring him intelligence. I can see your papa 
standing by, ready to shake them to get out their news.” 

“ But Mr. Donne’s questions are always to the point, 
and force out the grain without the chaff. And look at him, 
if any one tells him ill news about the election ! Have you 
never seen a dull red light come into his eyes ? That is 
like my race-horse. Her flesh quivered all over, at certain 
sounds and noises which had some meaning to her ; but she 
stood quite still, pretty creature ! Now, Mr. Donne is just 
as eager as she was, though he may be too proud to show 
it. Though he seems so gentle, I almost think he is very 
headstrong in following out his own will.” 

“ Well ! don’t call him like a horse again, for I am sure 
papa would not like it. Do you know, I thought you were 
going to say he was like little Leonard, when you asked me 
who he was like.” 

“ Leonard ! O mamma ! he is not in the least like 
Leonard. He is twenty times more like my race-horse.” 

261 


Ruth 

“ Now, my dear Jemima, do be quiet. Your father 
thinks racing so wrong, that I am sure he would be very 
seriously displeased if he were to hear you.” 

To return to Mr. Bradshaw, and to give one more of his 
various reasons for wishing to take Mr. Donne to Aber- 
mouth. The wealthy Eccleston manufacturer was uncom- 
fortably impressed with an indefinable sense of inferiority to 
his visitor. It was not in education, for Mr. Bradshaw was 
a well-educated man ; it was not in power, for, if he chose, 
the present object of Mr. Donne’s life might be utterly 
defeated ; it did not arise from anything overbearing in 
manner, for Mr. Donne was habitually polite and courteous, 
and was just now anxious to propitiate his host, whom he 
looked upon as a very useful man. Whatever this sense of 
inferiority arose from, Mr. Bradshaw was anxious to relieve 
himself from it, and imagined that if he could make more 
display of his wealth his object would be obtained. Now, 
his house in Eccleston was old-fashioned and ill- calculated 
to exhibit money’s worth. His mode of living, though 
strained to a high pitch just at this time, he became aware 
was no more than Mr. Donne was accustomed to every day 
of his life. The first day at dessert, some remark (some 
opportune remark, as Mr. Bradshaw, in his innocence, had 
thought) was made regarding the price of pine-apples, which 
was rather exorbitant that year, and Mr. Donne asked Mrs. 
Bradshaw, with quiet surprise, if they had no pinery, as 
if to be without a pinery were indeed a depth of pitiable 
destitution. In fact, Mr. Donne had been born and cradled 
in all that wealth could purchase, and so had his ancestors 
before him for so many generations, that refinement and 
luxury seemed the natural condition of man, and they that 
dwelt without were in the position of monsters. The 
absence was noticed ; but not the presence. 

Now, Mr. Bradshaw knew that the house and grounds 
of Eagle’s Crag were exorbitantly dear, and yet he really 
thought of purchasing them. And as one means of exhibit- 
ing his wealth, and so raising himself up to the level of Mr. 

262 


The Liberal Candidate 

Donne, he thought that if he could take the latter down to 
Abermouth, and show him the place for which, “because 
his little girls had taken a fancy to it,” he was willing to 
give the fancy price of fourteen thousand pounds, he should 
at last make those half-shut dreamy eyes open wide, and 
their owner confess that, in wealth at least, the Eccleston 
manufacturer stood on a par with him. 

All these mingled motives caused the determination which 
made Ruth sit in the little inn parlour of Abermouth during 
the wild storm’s passage. 

She wondered if she had fulfilled all Mr. Bradshaw’s 
directions. She looked at the letter. Yes ! everything was 
done. And now home with her news, through the wet lane, 
where the little pools by the roadside reflected the deep blue 
sky and the round white clouds with even deeper blue and 
clearer white ; and the rain-drops hung so thick on the trees, 
that even a little bird’s flight was enough to shake them 
down in a bright shower as of rain. When she told the 
news, Mary exclaimed — 

“ Oh, how charming ! Then we shall see this new 
member after all ! ” while Elizabeth added — 

“ Yes ! I shall like to do that. But where must we be ? 
Papa will want the dining-room and this room, and where 
must we sit ? ” 

“Oh!” said Ruth, “in the dressing-room next to my 
room. All that your papa wants always, is that you are 
quiet and out of the way.” 


263 


Ruth 


CHAPTER XXIII 

. RECOGNITION 

Saturday came. Torn, ragged clouds were driven across the 
sky. It was not a becoming day for the scenery, and the 
lifcfcle girls regretted it much. First they hoped for a change 
at twelve o’clock, and then at the afternoon tide-turning. 
But at neither time did the sun show his face. 

“ Papa will never buy this dear place,” said Elizabeth 
sadly, as she watched the weather. “ The sun is everything 
to it. The sea looks quite leaden to-day, and there is no 
sparkle on it. And the sands, that were so yellow and sun- 
speckled on Thursday, are all one dull brown now.” 

“Never mind! to-morrow may be better,” said Ruth 
cheerily. 

“ I wonder what time they will come at ? ” inquired 
Mary. 

“ Your papa said they would be at the station at five 
o’clock. And the landlandy at the ‘ Swan ’ said it would 
take them half-an-hour to get here.” 

“ And they are to dine at six ? ” asked Elizabeth. 

“ Yes,” answered Ruth. “ And I think, if we had our tea 
half-an-hour earlier, at half-past four, and then went out for 
a walk, we should be nicely out of the way just during the 
bustle of the arrival and dinner ; and we could be in the 
drawing-room ready against your papa came in after 
dinner.” 

“Oh! that would be nice,” said they; and tea was 
ordered accordingly. 

The south-westerly wind had dropped, and the clouds 
were stationary, when they went out on the sands. They 
dug litfcle holes near the incoming tide, and made canals to 
them from the water, and blew the light sea-foam against 
each other ; and then stole on tiptoe near to the groups of 
grey and white sea-gulls, which despised their caution, flying 

264 


Recognition 

soitiy and slowly away to a little distance as soon as they 
* drew near. And in all this Ruth was as great a child as any. 
Only she longed for Leonard with a mother’s longing, as 
indeed she did every day, and all hours of the day. By-and- 
by the clouds thickened yet more, and one or two drops of 
rain were felt. It was very little, but Ruth feared a shower for 
her delicate Elizabeth, and besides, the September evening was 
fast closing in the dark and sunless day. As they turned 
homewards in the rapidly increasing dusk, they saw three 
figures on the sand near the rocks, coming in their direction. 

“ Papa and Mr. Donne ! ” exclaimed Mary. “ Now we 
shall see him ! ” 

“ Which do you make out is him ? ” asked Elizabeth. 

“ Oh ! the tall one, to be sure. Don’t you see how papa 
always turns to him, as if he was speaking to him, and not 
to the other ? ” 

“ Who is the other ? ” asked Elizabeth. 

“ Mr. Bradshaw said that Mr. Earquhar and Mr. Hickson 
would come with him. But that is not Mr. Earquhar, I am 
sure,” said Ruth. 

The girls looked at each other, as they always did, when 
Ruth mentioned Mr. Farquhar’s name ; but she was perfectly 
unconscious both of the look and of the conjectures which 
gave rise to it. 

As soon as the two parties drew near, Mr. Bradshaw 
called out in his strong voice — 

“ Well, my dears ! we found there was an hour before 
dinner, so we came down upon the sands, and here you are.” 

The tone of his voice assured them that he was in a 
bland and indulgent mood, and the two little girls ran 
towards him. He kissed them, and shook hands with 
Ruth ; told his companions that these were the little girls 
who were tempting him to this extravagance of purchasing 
Eagle’s Crag ; and then, rather doubtfully, and because he 
saw that Mr. Donne expected it, he introduced “ My 
daughters’ governess, Mrs. Denbigh.” 

It was growing darker every moment, and it was time 
265 


Ruth 

they should hasten back to the rocks, which were even now 
indistinct in the grey haze. Mr. Bradshaw held a hand of 
each of his daughters, and Ruth walked alongside, the two 
strange gentlemen being on the outskirts of the party. 

Mr. Bradshaw began to give his little girls some home 
news. He told them that Mr. Farquhar was ill, and could 
not accompany them ; but Jemima and their mamma were 
quite well. 

The gentleman nearest to Ruth spoke to her. 

“ Are you fond of the sea ? ” asked he. There was no 
answer, so he repeated his question in a different form. 

“ Do you enjoy staying by the seaside ? I should rather 
ask.” 

The reply was “ Yes,” rather breathed out in a deep 
inspiration than spoken in a sound. The sands heaved and 
trembled beneath Ruth. The figures near her vanished into 
strange nothingness; the sounds of their voices were as 
distant sounds in a dream, while the echo of one voice 
thrilled through and through. She could have caught at his 
arm for support, in the awful dizziness which wrapped her 
up, body and soul. That voice ! No ! if name, and face, 
and figure were all changed, that voice was the same which 
had touched her girlish heart, which had spoken most tender 
words of love, which had won, and wrecked her, and which 
she had last heard in the low mutterings of fever. She 
dared not look round to see the figure of him who spoke, 
dark as it was. She knew he was there — she heard him 
speak in the manner in which he used to address strangers 
years ago ; perhaps she answered him, perhaps she did not 
— God knew. It seemed as if weights were tied to her feet 
— as if the steadfast rocks receded — as if time stood still ; — 
it was so long, so terrible, that path across the reeling sand. 

At the foot of the rocks they separated. Mr. Bradshaw, 
afraid lest dinner should cool, preferred the shorter way for 
himself and his friends. On Elizabeth’s account, the girls 
were to take the longer and easier path, which wound up- 
wards through a rocky field, where larks’ nests abounded, 

266 


Recognition 

and where wild thyme and heather were now throwing out 
their sweets to the soft night air. 

The little girls spoke in eager discussion of the strangers. 
They appealed to Ruth, but Ruth did not answer, and they 
were too impatient to convince each other to repeat the 
question. The first little ascent from the sands to the field 
surmounted, Ruth sat down suddenly and covered her face 
with her hands. This was so unusual — their wishes, their 
good, was so invariably the rule of motion or of rest in their 
walks — that the girls, suddenly checked, stood silent and 
affrighted in surprise. They were still more startled when 
Ruth wailed aloud some inarticulate words. 

“ Are you not well, dear Mrs. Denbigh ? ” asked Elizabeth 
gently, kneeling down on the grass by Ruth. 

She sat facing the west. The low watery twilight was 
on her face as she took her hands away. So pale, so 
haggard, so wild and wandering a look the girls had never 
seen on human countenance before. 

“ Well ! what are you doing here with me ? You should 
not be with me,” said she, shaking her head slowly. 

They looked at each other. 

“ You are sadly tired,” said Elizabeth soothingly. “ Come 
home, and let me help you to bed. I will tell papa you are 
ill, and ask him to send for a doctor.” 

Ruth looked at her as if she did not understand the 
meaning of her words. No more she did at first. But by- 
and-by the dulled brain began to think most vividly and 
rapidly, and she spoke in a sharp way which deceived the 
girls into a belief that nothing had been the matter. 

“Yes! I was tired. I am tired. Those sands— oh! 
those sands, — those weary, dreadful sands ! But that is all 
over now. Only my heart aches still. Feel how it flutters 
and beats,” said she, taking Elizabeth’s hand, and holding 
it to her side. “ I am quite well, though,” she continued, 
reading pity in the child’s looks, as she felt the trembling, 
quivering beat. “ We will go straight to the dressing-room, 
and read a chapter ; that will still my heart ; and then I’ll 

267 


Ruth 

go to bed, and Mr. Bradshaw will excuse me, I know, this 
one night. I only ask for one night. Put on your right 
frocks, dears, and do all you ought to do. But I know you 
will,” said she, bending down to kiss Elizabeth, and then, 
before she had done so, raising her head abruptly, “ You are 
good and dear girls — God keep you so ! ” 

By a strong effort at self-command, she went onwards at 
an even pace, neither rushing nor pausing to sob and think. 
The very regularity of motion calmed her. The front and 
back doors of the house were on two sides, at right angles 
with each other. They all shrank a little from the idea of 
going in at the front door, now that the strange gentlemen 
were about, and, accordingly, they went through the quiet 
farmyard right into the bright, ruddy kitchen, where the 
servants were dashing about with the dinner-things. It was 
a contrast in more than colour to the lonely, dusky field, 
which even the little girls perceived ; and the noise, the 
warmth, the very bustle of the servants, were a positive 
relief to Buth, and for the time lifted off the heavy press of 
pent-up passion. A silent house, with moonlit rooms, or 
with a faint gloom brooding over the apartments, would 
have been more to be dreaded. Then, she must have given 
way, and cried out. As it was, she went up the old awkward 
back-stairs, and into the room they were to sit in. There 
was no candle. Mary volunteered to go down for one ; and 
when she returned she was full of the wonders of preparation 
in the drawing-room, and ready and eager to dress, so as to 
take her place there before the gentlemen had finished dinner. 
But she was struck by the strange paleness of Buth’s face, 
now that the light fell upon it. 

“ Stay up here, dear Mrs. Denbigh ! We’ll tell papa you 
are tired, and are gone to bed.” 

Another time Buth would have dreaded Mr. Bradshaw’s 
displeasure ; for it was an understood thing that no one was 
to be ill or tired in his household without leave asked, and 
cause given and assigned. But she never thought of that 
now. Her great desire was to hold quiet till she was alone. 

268 


Recognition 

Quietness it was not — it was rigidity ; but she succeeded in 
being rigid in look and movement, and went through her duties 
to Elizabeth (who preferred remaining with her upstairs) with 
wooden precision. But her heart felt at times like ice, at times 
like burning fire ; always a heavy, heavy weight within her. 
At last Elizabeth went to bed. Still Ruth dared not think. 
Mary would come upstairs soon, and with a strange, sick, 
shrinking yearning, Ruth awaited her— and the crumbs of 
intelligence she might drop out about him. Ruth’s sense of 
hearing was quickened to miserable intensity as she stood 
before the chimney-piece, grasping it tight with both hands 
— gazing into the dying fire, but seeing — not the dead grey 
embers, or the little sparks of vivid light that ran hither and 
thither among the wood-ashes — but an old farmhouse, and 
climbing, winding road, and a little golden breezy common, 
with a rural inn on the hill-top, far, far away. And through 
the thoughts of the past came the sharp sounds of the 
present — of three voices, one of which was almost silence, it 
was so hushed. Indifferent people would only have guessed 
that Mr. Donne was speaking by the quietness in which the 
others listened ; but Ruth heard the voice and many of the 
words, though they conveyed no idea to her mind. She was 
too much stunned even to feel curious to know to what they 
related. He spoke. That was her one fact. 

Presently up came Mary, bounding, exultant. Papa had 
let her stay up one quarter of an hour longer, because Mr. 
Hickson had asked. Mr. Hickson was so clever ! She did 
not know what to make of Mr. Donne, he seemed such a 
dawdle. But he was very handsome. Had Ruth seen him ? 
Oh, no ! She could not, it was so dark on those stupid sands. 
Well, never mind, she would see him to-morrow. She must 
be well to-morrow. Papa seemed a good deal put out that 
neither she nor Elizabeth were in the drawing-room to-night ; 
and his last words were, “ Tell Mrs. Denbigh I hope ” (and 
papa’s “ hopes ” always meant “ expect ”) “ she will be able 
to make breakfast at nine o’clock ; ” and then she would see 
Mr. Donne. 


269 


Ruth 

That was all Ruth heard about him. She went with 
Mary into her bedroom, helped her to undress, and put the 
candle out. At length she was alone in her own room ! At 
length ! 

But the tension did not give way immediately. She 
fastened her door, and threw open the window, cold and 
threatening as was the night. She tore off her gown ; she 
put her hair back from her heated face. It seemed now as 
if she could not think — as if thought and emotion had been 
repressed so sternly that they would not come to relieve her 
stupefied brain. Till all at once, like a flash of lightning, her 
life, past and present, was revealed to her to its minutest 
detail. And when she saw her very present “ Now”, the 
strange confusion of agony was too great to be borne, and 
she cried aloud. Then she was quite dead, and listened as 
to the sound of galloping armies. 

“ If I might see him ! If I might see him ! If I might 
just ask him why he left me ; if I had vexed him in any 
way ; it was so strange — so cruel ! It was not him ; it was 
his mother,” said she, almost fiercely, as if answering herself. 
“ O God ! but he might have found me out before this,” she 
continued sadly. “ He did not care for me, as I did for him. 
He did not care for me at all,” she went on wildly and 
sharply. “ He did me cruel harm. I can never again lift 
up my face in innocence. They think I have forgotten all, 
because I do not speak. Oh, darling love ! am I talking 
against you ? ” asked she tenderly. “ I am so torn and 
perplexed ! You, who are the father of my child ! ” 

But that very circumstance, full of such tender meaning 
in many cases, threw a new light into her mind. It changed 
her from the woman into the mother — the stern guardian of 
her child. She was still for a time, thinking. Then she 
began again, but in a low, deep voice. 

“ He left me. He might have been hurried off, but he 
might have inquired — he might have learned and explained. 
He left me to bear the burden and the shame ; and never 
cared to learn, as he might have done, of Leonard’s birth. 

270 


Recognition 

He has no love for his child, and I will have no love for 
him.” 

She raised her voice while uttering this determination, 
and then, feeling her own weakness, she moaned out, “ Alas ! 
alas ! ” 

And then she started up, for all this time she had been 
rocking herself backwards and forwards as she sat on the 
ground, and began to pace the room with hurried steps. 

“ What am I thinking of ? Where am I ? I who have 
been praying these years and years to be worthy to be 
Leonard’s mother. My God ! What a depth of sin is in 
my heart ! Why, the old time would be as white as snow to 
what it would be now, if I sought him out, and prayed for 
the explanation, which would re-establish him in my heart. 
I who have striven (or made a mock of trying) to learn God’s 
holy will, in order to bring up Leonard into the full strength 
of a Christian — I who have taught his sweet innocent lips to 
pray, ‘ Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from 
evil ; ’ and yet, somehow, I’ve been longing to give him to 
his father, who is — who is ” — she almost choked, till at last 
she cried sharp out, “ Oh, my God ! I do believe Leonard’s 
father is a bad man, and yet, oh ! pitiful God, I love him ; I 
cannot forget — I cannot ! ” 

She threw her body half out of the window into the cold 
night air. The wind was rising, and came in great gusts. 
The rain beat down on her. It did her good. A still, calm 
night would not have soothed her as this did. The wild 
tattered clouds, hurrying past the moon, gave her a foolish 
kind of pleasure that almost made her smile a vacant smile. 
The blast-driven rain came on her again, and drenched her 
hair through and through. The words “ stormy wind ful- 
filling His word ” came into her mind. 

She sat down on the floor. This time her hands were 
clasped round her knees. The uneasy rocking motion was 
stilled. 

“ I wonder if my darling is frightened with this blustering, 
noisy wind. I wonder if he is awake.” 

271 


Ruth 

And then her thoughts went back to the various times of 
old, when, affrighted by the weather — sounds so mysterious 
in the night — he had crept into her bed and clung to her, 
and she had soothed him, and sweetly awed him into 
stillness and childlike faith, by telling him of the goodness 
and power of God. 

Of a sudden she crept to a chair, and there knelt as in 
the very presence of God, hiding her face, at first not 
speaking a word (for did He not know her heart), but 
by-and-by moaning out, amid her sobs and tears (and now 
for the first time she wept) — 

“ Oh, my God, help me, for I am very weak. My God ! 
I pray Thee be my rock and my strong fortress, for I of 
myself am nothing. If I ask in His name, Thou wilt give it 
me. In the name of Jesus Christ I pray for strength to do 
Thy will ! ” 

She could not think, or, indeed, remember anything but 
that she was weak, and God was strong, and “ a very present 
help in time of trouble; ” and the wind rose yet higher, and 
the house shook and vibrated as, in measured time, the great 
and terrible gusts came from the four quarters of the heavens 
and blew around it, dying away in the distance with loud 
and unearthly wails, which were not utterly still before the 
sound of the coming blast was heard like the trumpets of 
the vanguard of the Prince of Air. 

There was a knock at the bedroom door — a little, gentle 
knock, and a soft child’s voice. 

“ Mrs. Denbigh, may I come in, please ? I am so 
frightened ! ” 

It was Elizabeth. Euth calmed her passionate breathing 
by one hasty draught of water, and opened the door to the 
timid girl. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Denbigh ! did you ever hear such a night ? I 
am so frightened ! and Mary sleeps so sound.” 

Euth was too much shaken to be able to speak all at 
once; but she took Elizabeth in her arms to reassure her. 
Elizabeth stood back. 


272 


Recognition 

“ Why, how wet you are, Mrs. Denbigh ! and there’s the 
window open, I do believe ! Oh, how cold it is ! ” said she, 
shivering. 

“ Get into my bed, dear ! ” said Ruth. 

“ But do come too ! The candle gives such a strange 
light with that long wick, and, somehow, your face does not 
look like you. Please, put the candle out, and come to bed. 
I am so frightened, and it seems as if I should be safer if 
you were by me.” 

Ruth shut the window, and went to bed. Elizabeth was 
all shivering and quaking. To soothe her, Ruth made a 
great effort ; and spoke of Leonard and his fears, and, in a 
low hesitating voice, she spoke of God’s tender mercy, but 
very humbly, for she feared lest Elizabeth should think her 
better and holier than she was. The little girl was soon 
asleep, her fears forgotten ; and Ruth, worn out by passionate 
emotion, and obliged to be still for fear of awaking her 
bedfellow, went off into a short slumber, through the depths 
of which the echoes of her waking sobs quivered up. 

When she awoke the grey light of autumnal dawn was 
in the room. Elizabeth slept on ; but Ruth heard the servants 
about, and the early farmyard sounds. After she had re- 
covered from the shock of consciousness and recollection, 
she collected her thoughts with a stern calmness. He was 
here. In a few hours she must meet him. There was no 
escape, except through subterfuges and contrivances that 
were both false and cowardly. How it would all turn out 
she could not say, or even guess. But of one thing she was 
clear, and to one thing she would hold fast : that was, that, 
come what might, she would obey God’s law, and, be the 
end of all what it might, she would say, “ Thy will be 
done ! ” She only asked for strength enough to do this 
when the time came. How the time would come what 
speech or action would be requisite on her part she did not 
know — she did not even try to conjecture. She left that in 
His hands. 

She was icy cold, but very calm, when the breakfast-bell 


Ruth 

rang. She went down immediately; because she felt that 
there was less chance of a recognition if she were already at 
her place behind the tea-urn, and busied with the cups, 
than if she came in after all were settled. Her heart seemed 
to stand still, but she felt almost a strange exultant sense of 
power over herself. She felt, rather than saw, that he was 
not there. Mr. Bradshaw and Mr. Hickson were, and so 
busy talking election-politics that they did not interrupt their 
conversation even when they bowed to her. Her pupils sat 
one on each side of her. Before they were quite settled, and 
while the other two gentlemen yet hung over the fire, Mr. 
Donne came in. Ruth felt as if that moment was like 
death. She had a kind of desire to make some sharp sound, 
to relieve a choking sensation, but it was over in an instant, 
and she sat on very composed and silent — to all outward 
appearance the very model of a governess who knew her 
place. And by-and-by she felt strangely at ease in her sense 
of power. She could even listen to what was being said. 
She had never dared as yet to look at Mr. Donne, though 
her heart burned to see him once again. He sounded 
changed. The voice had lost its fresh and youthful eager- 
ness of tone, though in peculiarity of modulation it was the 
same. It could never be mistaken for the voice of another 
person. There was a good deal said at that breakfast, for 
none seemed inclined to hurry, although it was Sunday 
morning. Ruth was compelled to sit there, and it was good 
for her that she did. That half-hour seemed to separate the 
present Mr. Donne very effectively from her imagination of 
what Mr. Bellingham had been. She was no analyser ; she 
hardly even had learnt to notice character; but she felt 
there was some strange difference between the people she 
had lived with lately and the man who now leant back in 
his chair, listening in a careless manner to the conversation, 
but never joining in, or expressing any interest in it, unless 
it somewhere, or somehow, touched himself. Now, Mr. 
Bradshaw always threw himself into a subject ; it might be 
in a pompous, dogmatic sort of way, but he did do it, whether 

274 


Recognition 

it related to himself or not ; and it was part of Mr. Hickson’s 
trade to assume an interest if he felt it not. But Mr. Donne 
did neither the one nor the other. When the other two were 
talking of many of the topics of the day, he put his glass in 
his eye, the better to examine into the exact nature of a cold 
game-pie at the other side of the table. Suddenly Ruth felt 
that his attention was caught by her. Until now, seeing his 
short-sightedness, she had believed herself safe ; now her 
face flushed with a painful, miserable blush. But in an 
instant she was strong and quiet. She looked up straight at 
his face ; and, as if this action took him aback, he dropped 
his glass, and began eating away with great diligence. She 
had seen him. He was changed, she knew not how. In 
fact, the expression, which had been only occasional formerly, 
when his worse self predominated, had become permanent. 
He looked restless and dissatisfied. But he was very hand- 
some still ; and her quick eye had recognised, with a sort of 
strange pride, that the eyes and mouth were like Leonard’s. 
Although perplexed by the straightforward, brave look she 
had sent right at him, he was not entirely baffled. He 
thought this Mrs. Denbigh was certainly like poor Ruth ; but 
this woman was far handsomer. Her face was positively 
Greek; and then such a proud, superb turn of her head; 
quite queenly ! A governess in Mr. Bradshaw’s family ! 
Why, she might be a Percy or a Howard for the grandeur 
of her grace ! Poor Ruth ! This woman’s hair was darker, 
though ; and she had less colour ; although a more refined- 
looking person. Poor Ruth ! and, for the first time for 
several years, he wondered what had become of her ; though, 
of course, there was but one thing that could have happened, 
and perhaps it was as well he did not know her end, for 
most likely it would have made him very uncomfortable. 
He leant back in his chair, and, unobserved (for he would 
not have thought it gentlemanly to look so fixedly at her if 
she or any one noticed him), he put up his glass again. 
She was speaking to one of her pupils, and did not 
see him. 


275 


Ruth 

By Jove ! it must be she, though ! There were little 
dimples came out about the mouth as she spoke, just like 
those he used to admire so much in Buth, and which he had 
never seen in any one else — the sunshine without the posi- 
tive movement of a smile. The longer he looked the more 
he was convinced ; and it was with a jerk that he recovered 
himself enough to answer Mr. Bradshaw’s question, whether 
he wished to go to church or not. 

“ Church ? How far — a mile ? No ; I think I shall per- 
form my devotions at home to-day.” 

He absolutely felt jealous when Mr. Hickson sprang up 
to open the door as Ruth and her pupils left the room. He 
was pleased to feel jealous again. He had been really afraid 
he was too much “ used up ” for such sensations. But 
Hickson must keep his place. What he was paid for was 
doing the talking to the electors, not paying attention to the 
ladies in their families. Mr. Donne had noticed that Mr. 
Hickson had tried to be gallant to Miss Bradshaw ; let him, 
if he liked ; but let him beware how he behaved to this fair 
creature, Ruth or no Ruth. It certainly was Ruth ; only 
how the devil had she played her cards so well as to be the 
governess — the respected governess, in such a family as Mr. 
Bradshaw’s ? 

Mr. Donne’s movements were evidently to be the guide 
of Mr. Hickson’s. Mr. Bradshaw always disliked going to 
church, partly from principle, partly because he never could 
find the places in the Prayer-book. Mr. Donne was in the 
drawing-room as Mary came down ready equipped ; he 
was turning over the leaves of the large and handsome Bible. 
Seeing Mary, he was struck with a new idea. 

“ How singular it is,” said he, “ that the name of Ruth is 
so seldom chosen by those good people who go to the Bible 
before they christen their children ! It is a very pretty 
name, I think.” 

Mr. Bradshaw looked up. “ Why, Mary ! ” said he, “ is 
not that Mrs. Denbigh’s name ? ” 

“ Yes, papa,” replied Mary eagerly ; “ and I know two 
276 


Recognition 

other Ruths ; there s Ruth Brown here, and Ruth Macartney 
at Eccleston.” 

“ And I have an aunt called Ruth, Mr. Donne ! I don’t 
think your observation holds good. Besides my daughters’ 
governess, I know three other Ruths.” 

“ Oh ! I have no doubt I was wrong. It was just a speech 
of which one perceives the folly the moment it is made.” 

But, secretly, he rejoiced with a fierce joy over the 
success of his device. 

Elizabeth came to summon Mary. 

Ruth was glad when she got into the open air, and away 
from the house. Two hours were gone and over. Two out 
of a day, a day and a half — for it might be late on Monday 
morning before the Eccleston party returned. 

She felt weak and trembling in body, but strong in power 
over herself. They had left the house in good time for 
church, so they needed not to hurry ; and they went leisurely 
along the road, now and then passing some country person 
• whom they knew, and with whom they exchanged a kindly, 
placid greeting. But presently, to Ruth’s dismay, she heard 
a step behind, coming at a rapid pace, a peculiar clank of 
rather high-heeled boots, which gave a springy sound to the 
walk, that she had known well long ago. It was like a 
nightmare, where the evil dreaded is never avoided, never 
completely shunned, but is by one’s side at the very moment 
of triumph in escape. There he was by her side ; and 
there was still a quarter of a mile intervening between her 
and the church : but even yet she trusted that he had not 
recognised her. 

“ I have changed my mind, you see,” said he quietly. 

“ I have some curiosity to see the architecture of the church ; 
some of these old country churches have singular bits about 
them. Mr. Bradshaw kindly directed me part of the way ; 
but I was so much puzzled by ‘ turns to the right and 
‘turns to the left,’ that I was quite glad to espy your 
party.” 

That speech required no positive answer of any kind; 

277 


Ruth 

and no answer did it receive. He had not expected a reply. 
He knew, if she were Enth, she could not answer any in- 
different words of his ; and her silence made him more 
certain of her identity with the lady by his side. 

“ The scenery here is of a kind new to me ; neither grand, 
wild, nor yet marked by high cultivation ; and yet it has great 
charms. It reminds me of some part of Wales.” He 
breathed deeply, and then added, “ You have been in Wales, 
I believe ? ” 

He spoke low ; almost in a whisper. The little church - 
bell began to call the lagging people with its quick, sharp 
summons. Ruth writhed in body and spirit, but struggled 
on. The church-door would be gained at last ; and in that 
holy place she would find peace. 

He repeated in a louder tone, so as to compel an answer 
in order to conceal her agitation from the girls — 

“ Have you never been in Wales ? ” He used “ never ” 
instead of “ ever,” and laid the emphasis on that word, in 
order to mark his meaning to Ruth, and Ruth only. But he 
drove her to bay. 

“ I have been in Wales, sir,” she replied, in a calm, grave 
tone. “ I was there many years ago. Events took place 
there which contribute to make the recollections of that time 
most miserable to me. I shall be obliged to you, sir, if you 
will make no further reference to it.” 

The little girls wondered how Mrs. Denbigh could speak 
in such a high tone of quiet authority to Mr. Donne, who 
was almost a member of Parliament. But they settled that 
her husband must have died in Wales, and, of course, that 
would make the recollection of the country “ most miserable,” 
as she said. 

Mr. Donne did not dislike the answer, and he positively 
admired the dignity with which she spoke. His leaving her 
as he did must have made her very miserable ; and he liked 
the pride that made her retain her indignation, until he could 
speak to her in private, and explain away a good deal of 
what she might complain of with some justice. 

278 


Recognition 

The church was reached. They all went up the middle 
aisle into the Eagle’s Crag pew. He followed them in, 
entered himself, and shut the door. Euth’s heart sank as 
she saw him there ; just opposite to her ; coming between 
her and the clergyman who was to read out the word of God. 
It was merciless — it was cruel to haunt her there. She 
durst not lift her eyes to the bright eastern light— she could 
not see how peacefully the marble images of the dead lay on 
their tombs, for he was between her and all Light and Peace. 
She knew that his look was on her ; that he never turned 
his glance away. She could not join in the prayer for the 
remission of sins while he was there, for his very presence 
seemed as a sign that their stain would never be washed out 
of her life. But, although goaded and chafed by her thoughts 
and recollections, she kept very still. No sign of emotion, 
no flush of colour was on her face as he looked at her. 
Elizabeth could not find her place, and then Euth breathed 
once, long and deeply, as she moved up the pew, and out of 
the straight, burning glance of those eyes of evil meaning. 
When they sat down for the reading of the first lesson, 
Euth turned the corner of the seat so as no longer to be 
opposite to him. She could not listen. The words seemed to 
be uttered in some world far away, from which she was exiled 
and cast out : their sound, and yet more their meaning, was 
dim and distant. But in this extreme tension of mind to 
hold in her bewildered agony, it so happened that one of her 
senses was preternaturally acute. While all the church and 
the people swam in misty haze, one point in a dark corner 
grew clearer and clearer till she saw (what at another time 
she could not have discerned at all) a face — a gargoyle I 
think they call it — at the end of the arch next to the narrowing 
of the nave into the chancel, and in the shadow of that con- 
traction. The face was beautiful in feature (the next to it 
was a grinning monkey), but it was not the features that 
were the most striking part. There was a half-open mouth, 
not in any way distorted out of its exquisite beauty by the 
intense expression of suffering it conveyed. Any distortion 

279 


Ruth 

of the face by mental agony implies that a struggle with 
circumstance is going on. But in this face, if such struggle 
had been, it was over now. Circumstance had conquered ; 
and there was no hope from mortal endeavour, or help from 
mortal creature, to be had. But the eyes looked onward 
and upward to the “ hills from whence cometh our help.” 
And though the parted lips seemed ready to quiver with 
agony, yet the expression of the whole face, owing to these 
strange, stony, and yet spiritual eyes, was high and con- 
soling. If mortal gaze had never sought its meaning before, 
in the deep shadow where it had been placed long centuries 
ago, yet Buth’s did now. Who could have imagined such 
a look? Who could have witnessed — perhaps felt — such 
infinite sorrow and yet dared to lift it up by Faith into a 
peace so pure ? Or was it a mere conception ? If so, what 
a soul the unknown carver must have had ; for creator and 
handicraftsman must have been one ; no two minds could 
have been in such perfect harmony. Whatever it was — 
however it came there — imaginer, carver, sufferer, all were 
long passed away. Human art was ended — human life done 
— human suffering over ; but this remained ; it stilled Buth’s 
beating heart to look on it. She grew still enough to hear 
words which have come to many in their time of need, and 
awed them in the presence of the extremest suffering that 
the hushed world had ever heard of. 

The second lesson for the morning of the 25th of Septem- 
ber is the 26th chapter of St. Matthew’s Gospel. 

And when they prayed again Buth’s tongue was unloosed, 
and she also could pray, in His name who underwent the 
agony in the garden. 

As they came out of church, there was a little pause and 
gathering at the door. It had begun to rain ; those who had 
umbrellas were putting them up ; those who had not were 
regretting, and wondering how long it would last. Standing 
for a moment, impeded by the people who were thus collected 
under the porch, Buth heard a voice close to her say, very 
low, but very distinctly — 


280 


Recognition 

“ 1 have much to say to you— much to explain. I entreat 
you to give me the opportunity.” 

Buth did not reply. She would not acknowledge that 
she heard; but she trembled nevertheless, for the well- 
remembered voice was low and soft, and had yet its power 
to thrill. She earnestly desired to know why and how he- 
had left her. It appeared to her as if that knowledge could 
alone give her a relief from the restless wondering that 
distracted her mind, and that one explanation could do no 
harm. 

“No / ” the higher spirit made answer ; “it must not be.” 

Buth and the girls had each an umbrella. She turned to 
Mary, and said — 

“ Mary, give your umbrella to Mr. Donne, and come 
under mine.” Her way of speaking was short and decided ; 
she was compressing her meaning into as few words as 
possible. The little girl obeyed in silence. As they went 
first through the churchyard stile Mr. Donne spoke again. 

“ You are unforgiving,” said he. “ I only ask you to 
hear me. I have a right to be heard, Buth ! I won’t believe 
you are so much changed as not to listen to me when I 
entreat.” 

He spoke in a tone of soft complaint. But he himself 
had done much to destroy the illusion which had hung about 
his memory for years, whenever Buth had allowed herself to 
think of it. Besides which, during the time of her residence 
in the Benson family, her feeling of what people ought to be 
had been unconsciously raised and refined ; and Mr. Donne, 
even while she had to struggle against the force of past 
recollections, repelled her so much by what he was at present, 
that every speech of his, every minute they were together, 
served to make her path more and more easy to follow. His 
voice retained something of its former influence. When he 
spoke, without her seeing him, she could not help remember- 
ing former days. 

She did not answer this last speech any more than the 
first. She saw clearly, that, putting aside all thought as to 

281 


Ruth 

the character of their former relationship, it had been dis- 
solved by his will — his act and deed; and tha't, therefore, the 
power to refuse any further intercourse whatsoever remained 
with her. 

It sometimes seems a little strange how, after having 
earnestly prayed to be delivered from temptation, and having 
given ourselves with shut eyes into God’s hand, from that 
time every thought, every outward influence, every acknow- 
ledged law of life, seems to lead us on from strength to 
strength. It seems strange sometimes, because we notice 
the coincidence ; but it is the natural, unavoidable consequence 
of all, truth and goodness being one and the same, and there- 
fore carried out in every circumstance, external and internal, 
of God’s creation. 

When Mr. Donne saw that Ruth would not answer him, 
he became only the more determined that she should hear 
what he had to say. What that was he did not exactly 
know. The whole affair was most mysterious and piquant. 

The umbrella protected Ruth from more than the rain on 
that walk homewards, for under its shelter she could not be 
spoken to unheard. She had not rightly understood at what 
time she and the girls were to dine. From the gathering at 
meal-times she must not shrink. She must show no sign of 
weakness. But, oh ! the relief, after that walk, to sit in her 
own room, locked up, so that neither Mary nor Elizabeth 
could come by surprise, and to let her weary frame (weary 
with being so long braced up to rigidity and stiff quiet) fall 
into a chair anyhow — all helpless, nerveless, motionless, as if 
the very bones had melted out of her ! 

The peaceful rest which her mind took was in thinking of 
Leonard. She dared not look before or behind, but she could 
see him well at present. She brooded over the thought of 
him, till she dreaded his father more and more. By the light 
of her child’s purity and innocence, she saw evil clearly, and 
yet more clearly. She thought that, if Leonard ever came 
to know the nature of his birth, she had nothing for it but to 
die out of his sight. He could never know — human heart 

282 


Recognition 

could never know, her ignorant innocence, and all the small 
circumstances which had impelled her onwards. But God 
knew. And if Leonard heard of his mother’s error, why, 
nothing remained but death ; for she felt, then, as if she had 
it in her power to die innocently out of such future agony ; 
but that escape is not so easy. Suddenly a fresh thought 
came, and she prayed that, through whatever suffering, she 
might be purified. Whatever trials, woes, measureless pangs, 
God might see fit to chastise her with, she would not shrink, 
if only at last she might come into His presence in heaven. 
Alas ! the shrinking from suffering we cannot help. That 
part of her prayer was vain. And as for the rest, was not 
the sure justice of His law finding out even now ? His laws 
once broken, His justice and the very nature of those laws 
bring the immutable retribution ; but, if we turn penitently to 
Him, He enables us to bear our punishment with a meek 
and docile heart, “ for His mercy endureth for ever.” 

Mr. Bradshaw had felt himself rather wanting in proper 
attention to his guest, inasmuch as he had been unable, all 
in a minute, to comprehend Mr. Donne’s rapid change of 
purpose ; and, before it had entered into his mind that, not- 
withstanding the distance of the church, Mr. Donne was 
going thither, that gentleman was out of the sight, and far 
out of the reach, of his burly host. But though the latter 
had so far neglected the duties of hospitality as to allow his 
visitor to sit in the Eagle’s Crag pew with no other guard of 
honour than the children and the governess, Mr. Bradshaw 
determined to make up for it by extra attention during the 
remainder of the day. Accordingly he never left Mr. Donne. 
Whatever wish that gentleman expressed, it was the study 
of his host to gratify. Did he hint at the pleasure which a 
walk in such beautiful scenery would give him, Mr. Brad- 
shaw was willing to accompany him, although at Eccleston 
it was a principle with him not to take any walks for pleasure 
on a Sunday. When Mr. Donne turned round, and recol- 
lected letters which must be written, and which would compel 
him to stay at home, Mr. Bradshaw instantly gave up the 

283 


Ruth 

walk, and remained at hand, ready to furnish him with any 
writing-materials which could be wanted, and which were 
not laid out in the half -furnished house. Nobody knew 
where Mr. Hickson was all this time. He had sauntered 
out after Mr. Donne, when the latter set off for church, and 
he had never returned. Mr. Donne kept wondering if he 
could have met Euth — if, in fact, she had gone out with her 
pupils, now that the afternoon had cleared up. This uneasy 
wonder, and a few mental imprecations on his host’s polite 
attention, together with the letter- writing pretence, passed 
away the afternoon — the longest afternoon he had ever 
spent ; and of weariness he had had his share. Lunch was 
lingering in the dining-room, left there for the truant Mr. 
Hickson; but of the children or Euth there was no sign. 
He ventured on a distant inquiry as to their whereabouts. 

“ They dine early ; they are gone to church again. Mrs. 
Denbigh was a member of the Establishment once; and, 
though she attends chapel at home, she seems glad to have 
an opportunity of going to church.” 

Mr. Donne was on the point of asking some further ques- 
tions about “ Mrs. Denbigh,” when Mr Hickson came in, 
loxid- spoken, cheerful, hungry, and as ready to talk about his 
ramble, and the way in which he had lost and found himself, 
as he was about everything else. He knew how to dress up 
the commonest occurrence with a little exaggeration, a few 
puns, and a happy quotation or two, so as to make it sound 
very agreeable. He could read faces, and saw that he had 
been missed ; both host and visitor looked moped to death. 
He determined to devote himself to their amusement during 
the remainder of the day, for he had really lost himself, and 
felt that he had been away too long on a dull Sunday, when 
people were apt to get hipped if not well amused. 

“It is really a shame to be indoors in such a place. 
Eain ? Yes, it rained some hours ago, but now it is splendid 
weather. I feel myself quite qualified for guide, I assure 
you. I can show you all the beauties of the neighbourhood, 
and throw in a bog and a nest of vipers to boot.” 

284 


Recognition 

Mr. Donne languidly assented to this proposal of going 
out ; and then he became restless until Mr. Hickson had 
eaten a hasty lunch, for he hoped to meet Euth on the way 
from church, to be near her, and watch her, though he might 
not be able to speak to her. To have the slow hours roll 
away — to know he must leave the next day— and yet, so 
close to her, not to be seeing her — was more than he could 
bear. In an impetuous kind of way, he disregarded all Mr. 
Hickson’s offers of guidance to lovely views, and turned a 
deaf ear to Mr. Bradshaw’s expressed wish of showing him 
the land belonging to the house (“ very little for fourteen 
thousand pounds ”), and set off wilfully on the road leading 
to the church, from which he averred he had seen a view 
which nothing else about the place could equal. 

They met the country people dropping homewards. No 
Euth was there. She and her pupils had returned by the 
fieldway, as Mr. Bradshaw informed his guests at dinner- 
time. Mr. Donne was very captious all through dinner. 
He thought it never would be over, and cursed Hickson’s 
interminable stories, which were told on purpose to amuse 
him. His heart gave a fierce bound when he saw her in the 
drawing-room with the little girls. 

She was reading to them — with how sick and trembling a 
heart no words can tell. But she could master and keep 
down outward signs of her emotion. An hour more to-night 
(part of which was to be spent in family prayer, and all in 
the safety of company), another hour in the morning (when 
all would be engaged in the bustle of departure)— if, during 
this short space of time, she could not avoid speaking to him, 
she could at least keep him at such a distance as to make 
him feel that henceforward her world and his belonged to 
separate systems, wide as the heavens apart. 

By degrees she felt that he was drawing near to where 
she stood. He was by the table examining the books that 
lay upon it. Mary and Elizabeth drew off a little space, awe- 
stricken by the future member for Eccleston. As he bent his 
head over a book he said, “ I implore you ; five minutes alone.” 

2^5 


Ruth 

The little girls could not hear; but Ruth, hemmed in so 
that no escape was possible, did hear. 

She took sudden courage, and said in a clear voice — 

“ Will you read the whole passage aloud ? I do not 
remember it.” 

Mr. Hickson, hovering at no great distance, heard these 
words, and drew near to second Mrs. Denbigh’s request. 
Mr. Bradshaw, who was very sleepy after his unusually late 
dinner, and longing for bedtime, joined in the request, for it 
would save the necessity for making talk, and he might, 
perhaps, get in a nap, undisturbed and unnoticed, before the 
servants came in to prayers. 

Mr. Donne was caught ; he was obliged to read aloud, 
although he did not know what he was reading. In the 
middle of some sentence the door opened, a rush of servants 
came in, and Mr. Bradshaw became particularly wide awake 
in an instant, and read them a long sermon with great 
emphasis and unction, winding up with a prayer almost as 
long. 

Ruth sat with her head drooping, more from exhaustion 
after a season of effort than because she shunned Mr. 
Donne’s looks. He had so lost his power over her — his 
power, which had stirred her so deeply the night before — 
that, except as one knowing her error and her shame, and 
making a cruel use of such knowledge, she had quite 
separated him from the idol of her youth. And yet, for the 
sake of that first and only love, she would gladly have known 
what explanation he could offer to account for leaving her. 
It would have been something gained to her own self-respect 
if she had learnt that he was not then, as she felt him to be 
now, cold and egotistical, caring for no one and nothing but 
what related to himself. 

Home, and Leonard — how strangely peaceful the two 
seemed ! Oh, for the rest that a dream about Leonard would 
bring ! 

Mary and Elizabeth went to bed immediately after 
prayers, and Ruth accompanied them. It was planned that 

286 


The Meeting on the Sands 

the gentlemen should leave early the next morning. They 
were to breakfast half-an-hour sooner, to catch the railway- 
train ; and this by Mr. Donne’s own arrangement, who had 
been as eager about his canvassing, the week before, as it 
was possible for him to be, but who now wished Eccleston 
and the Dissenting interest therein very fervently at the 
devil. 

Just as the carriage came round Mr. Bradshaw turned to 
Ruth : “ Any message for Leonard beyond love, which is a 
matter of course ? ” 

Ruth gasped — for she saw Mr. Donne catch at the name ; 
she did not guess the sudden sharp jealousy called out by 
the idea that Leonard was a grown-up man. 

“ Who is Leonard ? ” said he to the little girl standing 
by him ; he did not know which she was. 

“ Mrs. Denbigh’s little boy,” answered Mary. 

Under some pretence or other, he drew near to Ruth ; 
and in that low voice which she had learnt to loathe he 
said — 

“ Our child ? ” 

By the white misery that turned her face to stone — by 
the wild terror in her imploring eyes — by the gasping breath 
which came out as the carriage drove away — he knew that 
he had seized the spell to make her listen at last. 


CHAPTER XXIV 

THE MEETING ON THE SANDS 

“ He will take him away from me ! He will take the child 
from me ! ” 

These words rang like a tolling bell through Ruth's head. 
It seemed to her that her doom was certain. Leonard would 
be taken from her. She had a firm conviction— not the less 

287 


Ruth 

firm because she knew not on what it was based — that a 
child, whether legitimate or not, belonged of legal right to 
the father. And Leonard, of all children, was the prince and 
monarch. Every man’s heart would long to call Leonard 
“ Child ! ” She had been too strongly taxed to have much 
power left her to reason coolly and dispassionately, just then, 
even if she had been with any one who could furnish her 
with information from which to draw correct conclusions. 
The one thought haunted her night and day — “ He will take 
my child away from me ! ” In her dreams she saw Leonard 
borne away into some dim land, to which she could not 
follow. Sometimes he sat in a swiftly-moving carriage, at 
his father’s side, and smiled on her as he passed by, as if 
going to promised pleasure. At another time he was 
struggling to return to her ; stretching out his little arms, 
and crying to her for the help she could not give. How she 
got through the days she did not know ; her body moved 
about and habitually acted, but her spirit was with her child. 
She thought often of writing and warning Mr. Benson of 
Leonard’s danger; but then she shrank from recurring to 
circumstances all mention of which had ceased years ago ; 
the very recollection of which seemed buried deep for ever. 
Besides, she feared occasioning discord or commotion in the 
quiet circle in which she lived. Mr. Benson’s deep anger 
against her betrayer had been shown too clearly in the old 
time to allow her to think that he would keep it down 
without expression now. He would cease to do anything to 
forward his election : he would oppose him as much as he 
could; and Mr. Bradshaw would be angry, and a storm 
would arise, from the bare thought of which Buth shrank 
with the cowardliness of a person thoroughly worn out with 
late contest. She was bodily wearied with her spiritual 
buffeting. 

One morning, three or four days after their departure, she 
received a letter from Miss Benson. She could not open it 
at first, and put it on one side, clenching her hands over it 
all the time. At last she tore it open. Leonard was safe as 

288 


The Meeting on the Sands 

yet. There were a few lines in his great round hand, 
speaking of events no larger than the loss of a beautiful 
“alley.” There was a sheet from Miss Benson. She 
always wrote letters in the manner of a diary. “ Monday 
we did so-and-so ; Tuesday, so-and-so, &c.” Ruth glanced 
rapidly down the pages. Yes, here it was ! Sick, fluttering 
heart, be still ! 

“ In the middle of the damsons, when they were just on 
the fire, there was a knock at the door. My brother was 
out, and Sally was washing up, and I was stirring the 
preserve with my great apron and bib on ; so I bade Leonard 
come in from the garden and open the door. But I would 
have washed his face first if I had known who it was ! It 
was Mr. Bradshaw and the Mr. Donne that they hope to 
send up to the House of Commons, as member of Parliament 
for Eccleston, and another gentleman, whose name -I never 
heard. They had come canvassing ; and when they found 
my brother was out, they asked Leonard if they could see 
me. The child said, ‘ Yes ! if I could leave the damsons ; ’ 
and straightway came to call me, leaving them standing in 
the passage. I whipped off my apron, and took Leonard by 
the hand, for I fancied I should feel less awkward if he was 
with me ; and then I went and asked them all into the study, 
for I thought I should like them to see how many books 
Thurstan had got. Then they began talking politics at me 
in a very polite manner, only I could not make head or tail 
of what they meant ; and Mr. Donne took a deal of notice 
of Leonard, and called him to him ; and I am sure he 
noticed what a noble, handsome boy he was, though his 
face was very brown and red, and hot with digging, and his 
curls all tangled. Leonard talked back as if he had known 
him all his life, till, I think Mr. Bradshaw thought he was 
making too much noise, and bid him remember he ought to 
be seen, not heard. So he stood as still and stiff as a 
soldier, close to Mr. Donne ; and as I could not help looking 
at the two, and thinking how handsome they both were in 
their different ways, I could not tell Thurstan half the 

289 u 


Ruth 

messages the gentlemen left for him. But there was one 
thing more I must tell you, though I said I would not. 
When Mr. Donne was talking to Leonard, he took off his 
watch and chain and put it round the boy’s neck, who was 
pleased enough, you may be sure. I bade him give it back 
to the gentleman, when they were all going away; and I 
was quite surprised, and very uncomfortable, when Mr. 
Donne said he had given it to Leonard, and that he was to 
keep it for his own. I could see Mr. Bradshaw was annoyed, 
and he and the other gentleman spoke to Mr. Donne, and I 
heard them say, ‘ too barefaced ; ’ and I shall never forget 
Mr. Donne’s proud, stubborn look back at them, nor his way 
of saying, ‘ I allow no one to interfere with what I choose to 
do with my own.’ And he looked so haughty and displeased, 
I durst say nothing at the time. But when I told Thurstan, 
he was very grieved and angry ; and said he had heard that 
our party were bribing, but that he never could have thought 
they would have tried to do it at his house. Thurstan is 
very much out of spirits about this election altogether ; and, 
indeed, it does make sad work up and down the town. How- 
ever, he sent back the watch, with a letter to Mr. Bradshaw ; 
and Leonard was very good about it, so I gave him a taste 
of the new damson-preserve on his bread for supper.” 

Although a stranger might have considered this letter 
wearisome, from the multiplicity of the details, Buth craved 
greedily after more. What had Mr. Donne said to Leonard ? 
Had Leonard liked his new acquaintance? Were they 
likely to meet again ? After wondering and wondering over 
these points, Ruth composed herself by the hope that in a 
day or two she should hear again ; and, to secure this end, 
she answered the letters by return of post. That was on 
Thursday. On Friday she had another letter, in a strange 
hand. It was from Mr. Donne. No name, no initials were 
given. If it had fallen into another person’s hands, they 
could not have recognised the writer, nor guessed to whom it 
was sent. It contained simply these words : — 

“ For our child’s sake, and in his name, I summon you 
290 


The Meeting on the Sands 

to appoint a place where I can speak, and you can listen, 
undisturbed. The time must be on Sunday; the limit of 
distance may be the circumference of your power of walking. 
My words may be commands, but my fond heart entreats. 
More I shall not say now, but, remember ! your boy’s welfare 
depends on your acceding to this request. Address B. D., 
Post-Office, Eccleston.” 

Ruth did not attempt to answer this letter till the last 
five minutes before the post went out. She could not decide 
until forced to it. Either way she dreaded. She was very 
nearly leaving the letter altogether unanswered. But 
suddenly she resolved she would know all, the best, the 
worst. No cowardly dread of herself, or of others, should 
make her neglect aught that came to her in her child’s name. 
She took up a pen and wrote — 

“ The sands below the rocks, where we met you the other 
night. Time, afternoon church.” 

Sunday came. 

“ I shall not go to church this afternoon. You know the 
way, of course ; and I trust you to go steadily by your- 
selves.” 

When they came to kiss her before leaving her, accord- 
ing to their fond wont, they were struck by the coldness of 
her face and lips. 

“ Are you not well, dear Mrs. Denbigh ? How cold you 
are ! ” 

“ Yes, darling ! I am well ; ” and tears sprang into her 
eyes as she looked at their anxious little faces. “ Go 
now, dears. Five o’clock will soon be here, and then we will 
have tea.” 

“ And that will warm you ! ” said they, leaving the room. 

“ And then it will be over,” she murmured— “ over.” 

It never came into her head to watch the girls as they 
disappeared down the lane on their way to church. She 
knew them too well to distrust their doing what they were 
told. She sat still, her head bowed on her arms for a few 
minutes, and then rose up and went to put on her walking 

291 


Ruth 

things. Some thoughts impelled her to sudden haste. She 
crossed the field by the side of the house, ran down the steep 
and rocky path, and was carried by the impetus of her 
descent far out on the level sands — but not far enough for 
her intent. Without looking to the right hand or to the left, 
where comers might be seen, she went forwards to the black 
posts, which, rising above the heaving waters, marked where 
the fishermen’s nets were laid. She went straight towards 
this place, and hardly stinted her pace even where the wet 
sands were glittering with the receding waves. Once there, 
she turned round, and, in a darting glance, saw that as yet 
no one was near. She was perhaps half-a-mile or more from 
the grey, silvery rocks, which sloped away into brown moor- 
land, interspersed with a field here and there of golden, 
waving corn. Behind were purple hills, with sharp, clear 
outlines, touching the sky. A little on one side from where 
she stood she saw the white cottages and houses which 
formed the village of Abermouth, scattered up and down ; 
and, on a windy hill, about a mile inland, she saw the little 
grey church, where even now many were worshipping in 
peace. 

“ Pray for me!” she sighed out as this object caught 
her eye. 

And now, close under the heathery fields, where they fell 
softly down and touched the sands, she saw a figure moving 
in the direction of the great shadow made by the rocks — 
going towards the very point where the path from Eagle’s 
Crag came down to the shore. 

“ It is he ! ” said she to herself. And she turned round 
and looked seaward. The tide had turned ; the waves were 
slowly receding, as if loth to lose the hold they had, so 
lately, and with such swift bounds, gained on the yellow 
sands. The eternal moan they have made since the world 
began filled the ear, broken only by the skirl of the grey 
sea-birds as they alighted in groups on the edge of the waters, 
or as they rose up with their measured, balancing motion, 
and the sunlight caught their white breasts. There was no 

292 


The Meeting on the Sands 

sign of human life to be seen ; no boat, or distant sail, or near 
shrimper. The black posts there were all that spoke of men’s 
work or labour. Beyond a stretch of the waters, a few pale 
grey hills showed like films ; their summits clear, though 
faint, their bases lost in a vapoury mist. 

On the hard, echoing sands, and distinct from the cease- 
less murmur of the salt sea waves, came footsteps— nearer — 
nearer. Very near they were when Ruth, unwilling to show 
the fear that rioted in her heart, turned round, and faced Mr. 
Donne. 

He came forward, with both hands extended. 

“ This is kind ! my own Ruth,” said he. Ruth’s arms hung 
down motionless at her sides. 

“ What ! Ruth, have you no word for me ? ” 

“ I have nothing to say,” said Ruth. 

“ Why, you little revengeful creature ! And so I am to 
explain all, before you will even treat me with decent 
civility.” 

“ I do not want explanations,” said Ruth in a trembling 
tone. “We must not speak of the past. You asked me to 
come in Leonard’s — in my child’s name, and to hear what 
you had to say about him.” 

“ But what I have to say about him relates to you even 
more. And how can we talk about him without recurring 
to the past ? That past, which you try to ignore — I know 
you cannot do it in your heart — is full of happy recollections 
to me. Were you not happy in Wales ? ” he said, in his 
tenderest tone. 

But there was no answer; not even one faint sigh, 
though he listened intently. 

“ You dare not speak ; you dare not answer me. Your 
heart will not allow you to prevaricate, and you know you 
were happy.”- 

Suddenly Ruth’s beautiful eyes were raised to him, full 
of lucid splendour, but grave and serious in their expression ; 
and her cheeks, heretofore so faintly tinged with the tenderest 
blush, flashed into a ruddy glow. 

293 


Ruth 

“ I was happy. I do not deny it. Whatever comes, I 
will not blench from the truth. I have answered you.” 

“ And yet,” replied he, secretly exulting in her admission, 
and not perceiving the inner strength of which she must 
have been conscious before she would have dared to make 
it — “ and yet, Euth, we are not to recur to the past ! Why 
not ? If it was happy at the time, is the recollection of it 
so miserable to you ? ” 

He tried once more to take her hand, but she quietly 
stepped back. 

“ I came to hear what you had to say about my child,” 
said she, beginning to feel very weary. 

“ Our child, Ruth.” 

She drew herself up, and her face went very pale. 

“ What have you to say about him ? ” asked she coldly. 

“ Much,” exclaimed he — “ much that may affect his 
whole life. But it all depends upon whether you will hear 
me or not.” 

“ I listen.” 

“ Good heavens ! Ruth, you will drive me mad. Oh ! 
what a changed person you are from the sweet, loving 
creature you were ! I wish you were not so beautiful.” 

She did not reply, but he caught a deep, involuntary sigh. 

“Will you hear me if I speak, though I may not begin 
all at once to talk of this boy — a boy of whom any mother — 
any parent, might be proud ? I could see that, Ruth. I 
have seen him ; he looked like a prince in that cramped, 
miserable house, and with no earthly advantages. It is a 
shame he should not have every kind of opportunity laid 
open before him.” 

There was no sign of maternal ambition on the motion- 
less face, though there might be some little spring in her 
heart, as it beat quick and strong at the idea of the proposal 
she imagined he was going to make of taking her boy away 
to give him the careful education she had often craved for 
him. She should refuse it, as she would everything else 
which seemed to imply that she acknowledged a claim over 

294 


The Meeting on the Sands 

Leonard; but yet sometimes, for her boy’s sake, she had 
longed for a larger opening — a more extended sphere. 

“Ruth! you acknowledge we were happy once; — there 
were circumstances which, if I could tell you them all in 
detail, would show you how, in my weak, convalescent state, 
I was almost passive in the hands of others. Ah, Ruth ! I 
have not forgotten the tender nurse who soothed me in my 
delirium. When I am feverish, I dream that I am again at 
Llan-dhu, in the little old bedchamber, and you, in white — 
which you always wore then, you know — flitting about me.” 

The tears dropped, large and round from Ruth’s eyes — 
she could not help it — how could she ? 

“ We were happy then,” continued he, gaining confidence 
from the sight of her melted mood, and recurring once more 
to the admission which he considered so much in his favour. 
“ Can such happiness never return ? ” Thus he went on, 
quickly, anxious to lay before her all he had to offer, before 
she should fully understand his meaning. 

“ If you would consent, Leonard should be always with 
you — educated where and how you liked — money to any 
amount you might choose to name should be secured to you 
and him — if only, Ruth — if only those happy days might 
return.” 

Ruth spoke — 

“ I said that I was happy, because I had asked God to 
protect and help me — and I dared not tell a lie. I was 
happy. Oh ! what is happiness or misery that we should 
talk about them now ? ” 

Mr. Donne looked at her, as she uttered these words, to 
see if she was wandering in her mind, they seemed to him 
so utterly strange and incoherent. 

“ I dare not think of happiness — I must not look forward 
to sorrow. God did not put me here to consider either of 
these things.” 

“ My dear Ruth, compose yourself ! There is no hurry 
in answering the question I asked.” 

“ What was it ? ” said Ruth. 

2 95 


Ruth 

“I love you so, I cannot live without you. I offer you 
my heart, my life — I offer to place Leonard wherever you 
would have him placed. I have the power and the means 
to advance him in any path of life you choose. All who 
have shown kindness to you shall be rewarded by me, with 
a gratitude even surpassing your own. If there is anything 
else I can do that you can suggest, I will do it.” 
i “ Listen to me ! ” said Ruth, now that the idea of what he 
proposed had entered her mind. “ When I said that I was 
happy with you long ago, I was choked with shame as I said 
it. And yet it may be a vain, false excuse that I make for 
myself. I was very young ; I did not know how such a life 
was against God’s pure and holy will — at least, not as I know 
it now ; and I tell you the truth — all the days of my years 
since I have gone about with a stain on my hidden soul — a 
stain which made me loathe myself, and envy those who 
stood spotless and undefiled ; which made me shrink from 
my child — from Mr. Benson, from his sister, from the innocent 
girls whom I teach — nay, even I have cowered away from 
God Himself ; and what I did wrong then, I did blindly to 
what I should do now if I listened to you.” 

She was so strongly agitated that she put her hands over 
her face, and sobbed without restraint. Then, taking them 
away, she looked at him with a glowing face, and beautiful, 
honest, wet eyes, and tried to speak calmly, as she asked if 
she needed to stay longer (she would have gone away at 
once but that she thought of Leonard, and wished to hear 
all that his father might have to say). He was so struck 
anew by her beauty, and understood her so little, that he 
believed that she only required a little more urging to consent 
to what he wished ; for in all she had said there was no trace 
of the anger and resentment for his desertion of her, which 
he had expected would be a prominent feature — the greatest 
obstacle he had to encounter. The deep sense of penitence 
she expressed he mistook for earthly shame ; which he 
imagined he could soon soothe away. 

“Yes, I have much more to say. I have not said half. 

296 


The Meeting on the Sands 

I cannot tell you how fondly I will— how fondly I do love 
you how my life shall be spent in ministering to your 

wishes. Money, I see— I know, you despise ” 

Mr. Bellingham ! I will not stay to hear you speak to 
me so again. I have been sinful, but it is not you who 

should ” She could not speak, she was so choking with 

passionate sorrow. 

He wanted to calm her, as he saw her shaken with re- 
pressed sobs. He put his hand on her arm. She shook it 
off impatiently, and moved away in an instant. 

“ Ruth ! said he, nettled by her action of repugnance, 
“ I begin to think you never loved me.” 

“ I ! — I never loved you ! Do you dare to say so ? ” 

Her eyes flamed on him as she spoke. Her red, round 
lip curled into beautiful contempt. 

“ Why do you shrink so from me?” said he, in his turn 
getting impatient. 

“ I did not come here to be spoken to in this way,” said 
she. “ I came, if by any chance I could do Leonard good. 
I would submit to many humiliations for his sake — but to no 
more from you.” 

“ Are not you afraid to brave me so ? ” said he. “ Don’t 
you know how much you are in my power ? ” 

She was silent. She longed to go away, but dreaded lest 
he should follow her, where she might be less subject to 
interruption than she was here — near the fisherman’s nets, 
which the receding tide was leaving every moment barer and 
more bare, and the posts they were fastened to more blackly 
uprising above the waters. 

Mr. Donne put his hands on her arms as they hung down 
before her — her hands tightly clasped together. 

“ Ask me to let you go,” said he. “I will, if you will ask 
me.” He looked very fierce and passionate and determined. 
The vehemence of his action took Ruth by surprise, and the 
painful tightness of the grasp almost made her exclaim. But 
she was quite still and mute. 

“ Ask me,” said he, giving her a little shake. She did 
297 


Ruth 

not speak. Her eyes, fixed on the distant shore, were slowly 
filling with tears. Suddenly a light came through the mist 
that obscured them, and the shut lips parted. She saw some 
distant object that gave her hope. 

“It is Stephen Bromley,” said she. “ He is coming to 
his nets. They say he is a very desperate, violent man, but 
he will protect me.” 

“ You obstinate, wilful creature ! said Mr. Donne, re- 
leasing his grasp. “ You forget that one word of mine could 
undeceive all these good people at Eccleston ; and that if I 
spoke out ever so little, they would throw you off in an 
instant. Now ! ” he continued, “ do you understand how 
much you are in my power ? ” 

“ Mr. and Miss Benson know all — they have not thrown 
me off,” Ruth gasped out. “ Oh ! for Leonard’s sake ! you 
would not be so cruel.” 

“ Then do not be cruel to him — to me. Think once 
more ! ” 

“ I think once more.” She spoke solemnly. “ To save 
Leonard from the shame and agony of knowing my disgrace 
I would lay down and die. Oh ! perhaps it would be best 
for him — for me, if I might ; my death would be a stingless 
grief — but to go back into sin would be the real cruelty to 
him. The errors of my youth may be washed away by my 
tears — it was so once when the gentle, blessed Christ was 
upon earth ; but now, if I went into wilful guilt, as you 
would have me, how could I teach Leonard God’s holy will ? 
I should not mind his knowing my past sin, compared to the 
awful corruption it would be if he knew me living now, as 

you would have me, lost to all fear of God ” Her speech 

was broken by sobs. “ Whatever may be my doom — God is 
just — I leave myself in His hands. I will save Leonard from 
evil. Evil would it be for him if I lived with you. I will 
let him die first ! ” She lifted her eyes to heaven, and clasped 
and wreathed her hands together tight. Then she said “ You 
have humbled me enough, sir. I shall leave you now.” 

She turned away resolutely. The dark, grey fisherman 
298 


The Meeting on the Sands 

was at hand. Mr. Donne folded his arms and set his teeth, 
and looked after her. 

“ What a stately step she has ! How majestic and 
graceful all her attitudes were ! She thinks she has baffled 
me now. We will try something more, and bid a higher 
price.” He unfolded his arms, and began to follow her. He 
gained upon her, for her beautiful walk was now wavering 
and unsteady. The works which had kept her in motion 
were running down fast. 

“ Ruth ! ” said he, overtaking her. “ You shall hear me 
once more. Ay, look round ! Your fisherman is near. He 
may hear me, if he chooses — hear your triumph. I am come 
to offer to marry you, Ruth; come what may, I will have 
you. Nay — I will make you hear me. I will hold this hand 
till you have heard me. To-morrow I will speak to any one 

in Eccleston you like — to Mr. Bradshaw ; Mr. , the little 

minister I mean. We can make it worth while for him to 
keep our secret, and no one else need know but what you are 
really Mrs. Denbigh. Leonard shall still bear this name, but 
in all things else he shall be treated as my son. He and you 
would grace any situation. I will take care the highest paths 
are open to him ! ” 

He looked to see the lovely face brighten into sudden joy ; 
on the contrary, the head was still hung down with a heavy 
droop. 

“ I cannot,” said she ; her voice was very faint and low. 

“It is sudden for you, my dearest. But be calm. It 
will all be easily managed. Leave it to me.” 

“ I cannot,” repeated she, more distinct and clear, though 
still very low. 

“ Why ! what on earth makes you say that ? ” asked he, 
in a mood to be irritated by any repetition of such words. 

“ I do not love you. I did once. Don’t say I did not 
love you then ! but I do not now. I could never love you 
again. All you have said and done since you came with Mr. 
Bradshaw to Abermouth first has only made me wonder 
how I ever could have loved you. We are very far apart. 

299 


Ruth 

The time that has pressed down my life like brands of hot 
iron, and scarred me for ever, has been nothing to you. You 
have talked of it with no sound of moaning in your voice — no 
shadow over the brightness of your face ; it has left no sense 
of sin on your conscience, while me it haunts and haunts ; 
and yet I might plead that I was an ignorant child — only I 

will not plead anything, for God knows all But this is 

only one piece of our great difference ” 

“ You mean that I am no saint,” he said, impatient at 
her speech. “ Granted. But people who are no saints have 
made very good husbands before now. Come, don’t let any 
morbid, overstrained conscientiousness interfere with sub- 
stantial happiness — both to you and to me — for I am sure I 
can make you happy— ay ! and make you love me, too, in 
spite of your pretty defiance. I love you so dearly, I must 
win love back. And here are advantages for Leonard, to be 
gained by you quite in a holy and legitimate way.” 

She stood very erect. 

“ If there was one thing needed to confirm me, you have 
named it. You shall have nothing to do with my boy, by 
my consent, much less by my agency. I would rather see 
him working on the roadside than leading such a life — being 
such a one as you are. You have heard my mind now, Mr. 
Bellingham. You have humbled me —you have baited me ; 
and if at last I have spoken out too harshly, and too much 
in a spirit of judgment, the fault is yours. If there were no 
other reason to prevent our marriage but the one fact that it 
would bring Leonard into contact with you, that would be 
enough.” 

“It is enough ! ” said he, making her a low bow. 
“ Neither you nor your child shall ever more be annoyed by 
me. I wish you a good evening.” 

They walked apart — he back to the inn, to set off in- 
stantly, while the blood was hot within him, from the place 
where he had been so mortified — she to steady herself along 
till she reached the little path, more like a rude staircase 
than anything else, by which she had to climb to the house. 

3 °° 


The Meeting on the Sands 

She did not turn round for some time after she was fairly 
lost to the sight of any one on the shore ; she clambered on, 
almost stunned by the rapid beating of her heart. Her eyes 
were hot and dry ; and at last became as if she were suddenly 
blind. Unable to go on, she tottered into the tangled under- 
wood which grew among the stones, filling every niche and 
crevice, and little shelving space, with green and delicate 
tracery. She sank down behind a great overhanging rock, 
which hid her from any one coming up the path. An ash- 
tree was rooted in this rock, slanting away from the sea- 
breezes that were prevalent in most weathers ; but this was 
a still, autumnal Sabbath evening. As Ruth’s limbs fell, so 
they lay. She had no strength, no power of volition to move 
a finger. She could not think or remember. She was 
literally stunned. The first sharp sensation which roused 
her from her torpor was a quick desire to see him once 
more ; up she sprang, and climbed to an out- jutting dizzy 
point of rock, but a little above her sheltered nook, yet com- 
manding a wide view over the bare, naked sands ; — far away 
below, touching the rippling water-line, was Stephen Brom- 
ley, busily gathering in his nets ; besides him there was no 
living creature visible. Ruth shaded her eyes, as if she 
thought they might have deceived her ; but no, there was no 
one there. She went slowly down to her old place, crying 
sadly as she went. 

“ Oh ! if I had not spoken so angrily to him — the last 
things I said were so bitter — so reproachful ! — and I shall 
never, never see him again ! ” 

She could not take in a general view and scope of their 
conversation — the event was too near her for that ; but her 
heart felt sore at the echo of her last words, just and true as 
their severity was. Her struggle, her constant flowing tears, 
which fell from very weakness, made her experience a sensa- 
tion of intense bodily fatigue ; and her soul had lost the 
power of throwing itself forward, or contemplating anything 
beyond the dreary present, when the expanse of grey, wild, 
bleak moors, stretching wide away below a sunless sky, 

301 


Ruth 

seemed only an outward sign of the waste world within her 
heart, for which she could claim no sympathy ; — for she 
could not even define what its woes were ; and, if she could, 
no one would understand how the present time was haunted 
by the terrible ghost of the former love. 

“ I am so weary ! I am so weary ! ” she moaned aloud at 
last. “ I wonder if I might stop here, and just die away.” 

She shut her eyes, until through the closed lids came 
a ruddy blaze of light. The clouds had parted away, and 
the sun was going down in the crimson glory behind the 
distant purple hills. The whole western sky was one flame 
of fire. Euth forgot herself in looking at the gorgeous sight. 
She sat up gazing ; and, as she gazed, the tears dried on her 
cheeks, and, somehow, all human care and sorrow were 
swallowed up in the unconscious sense of God’s infinity. 
The sunset calmed her more than any words, however wise 
and tender, could have done. It even seemed to give her 
strength and courage ; she did not know how or why, but so 
it was. 

She rose, and went slowly towards home. Her limbs 
were very stiff, and every now and then she had to choke 
down an unbidden sob. Her pupils had been long returned 
from church, and had busied themselves in preparing tea — 
an occupation which had probably made them feel the time 
less long. 

If they had ever seen a sleep-walker, they might have 
likened Euth to one for the next few days, so slow and 
measured did her movements seem — so far away was her 
intelligence from all that was passing around her — so hushed 
and strange were the tones of her voice. They had letters 
from home, announcing the triumphant return of Mr. Donne 
as M.P. for Eccleston. Mrs. Denbigh heard the news with- 
out a word, and was too languid to join in the search after 
purple and yellow flowers with which to deck the sitting-room 
at Eagle’s Crag. 

A letter from Jemima came the next day, summoning 
them home. Mr. Donne and his friends had left the place, 

302 


The Meeting on the Sands 

and quiet was restored in the Bradshaw household; so it 
was time that Mary and Elizabeth’s holiday should cease. 
Mrs. Denbigh had also a letter — a letter from Miss Benson, 
saying that Leonard was not quite well. There was so much 
pains taken to disguise anxiety, that it was very evident 
much anxiety was felt ; and the girls were almost alarmed 
by Ruth’s sudden change from taciturn languor to eager, 
vehement energy. Body and mind seemed strained to 
exertion. Every plan that could facilitate packing and 
winding up affairs at Abermouth, every errand and arrange- 
ment that could expedite their departure by one minute, 
was done by Ruth with stern promptitude. She spared'herself 
in nothing. She made them rest, made them lie down, 
while she herself lifted weights and transacted business with 
feverish power, never resting, and trying never to have time 
to think. 

For in remembrance of the Past there was Remorse — 
how had she forgotten Leonard these last few days ! — how 
had she repined and been dull of heart to her blessing ! 
And in anticipation of the future there was one sharp point 
of red light in the darkness which pierced her brain with 
agony, and which she would not see or recognise — and saw 
and recognised all the more for such mad determination — 
which is not the true shield against the bitterness of the 
arrows of death. 

When the seaside party arrived in Eccleston, they were 
met by Mrs. and Miss Bradshaw and Mr. Benson. By a firm 
resolution, Ruth kept from shaping the question, “ Is he 
alive?” as if by giving shape to her fears she made their 
realisation more imminent. She said merely, “ How is he ? ” 
but she said it with drawn, tight, bloodless lips, and in her 
eyes Mr. Benson read her anguish of anxiety. 

“ He is very ill, but we hope he will soon be better. It is 
what every child has to go through.” 


Ruth 


CHAPTEE XXV 

JEMIMA MAKES A DISCOVERY 

Mr. Bradshaw had been successful in carrying his point. 
His member had been returned ; his proud opponents 
mortified. So the public thought he ought to be well 
pleased; but the public were disappointed to see that he 
did not show any of the gratification they supposed him to 
feel. 

The truth was, that he met with so many small mortifi- 
cations during the progress of the election, that the pleasure 
which he would otherwise have felt in the final success of 
his scheme was much diminished. 

He had more than tacitly sanctioned bribery ; and now 
that the excitement was over, he regretted it : not entirely 
from conscientious motives, though he was uneasy from the 
slight sense of wrong-doing ; but he was more pained, after 
all, to think that, in the eyes of some of his townsmen, his 
hitherto spotless character had received a blemish. He, who 
had been so stern and severe a censor on the undue influence 
exercised by the opposite party in all preceding elections, 
could not expect to be spared by their adherents now, when 
there were rumours that the hands of the scrupulous Dis- 
senters were not clean. Before, it had been his boast that 
neither friend nor enemy could say one word against him ; 
now, he was constantly afraid of an indictment for bribery, 
and of being compelled to appear before a committee to 
swear to his own share in the business. 

His uneasy, fearful consciousness made him stricter and 
sterner than ever ; as if he would quench all wondering, 
slanderous talk about him in the town by a renewed austerity 
of uprightness : that the slack-principled Mr. Bradshaw of 
one month of ferment and excitement might not be con- 
founded with the highly conscientious and deeply religious 

3°4 


Jemima makes a Discovery 

Mr. Bradshaw, who went to chapel twice a day, and gave 
a hundred pounds apiece to every charity in the town, as a 
sort of thank-offering that his end was gained. 

But he was secretly dissatisfied with Mr. Donne. In 
general, that gentleman had been rather too willing to act in 
accordance with any one’s advice, no matter whose ; as if he 
had thought it too much trouble to weigh the wisdom of his 
friends, in which case Mr. Bradshaw’s would have, doubtless, 
proved the most valuable. But now and then he unexpect- 
edly, and utterly without reason, took the conduct of affairs 
into his own hands, as when he had been absent without 
leave only just before the day of nomination. * No one 
guessed whither he had gone ; but the fact of his being gone 
was enough to chagrin Mr. Bradshaw, who was quite ready 
to have picked a quarrel on this very head if the election had 
not terminated favourably. As it was, he had a feeling of 
proprietorship in Mr. Donne which was not disagreeable. 
He had given the new M.P. his seat ; his resolution, his 
promptitude, his energy, had made Mr. Donne “our member; ” 
and Mr. Bradshaw began to feel proud of him accordingly. 
But there had been no one circumstance during this period 
to bind Jemima and Mr. Farquhar together. They were 
still misunderstanding each other with all their power. The 
difference in the result was this : Jemima loved him all the 
more, in spite of quarrels and coolness. He was growing 
utterly weary of the petulant temper of which he was never 
certain ; of the reception which varied day after day, accord- 
ing to the mood she was in and the thoughts that were 
uppermost; and he was almost startled to find how very 
glad he was that the little girls and Mrs. Denbigh were 
coming home. His was a character to bask in peace ; and 
lovely, quiet Buth, with her low tones and soft replies, her 
delicate waving movements, appeared to him the very type 
of what a woman should be — a calm, serene soul, fashioning 
the body to angelic grace. 

It was, therefore, with no slight interest that Mr. Farquhar 
inquired daily after the health of little Leonard. He asked 

305 x 


Ruth 

at the Bensons’ house ; and Sally answered him, with swollen 
and tearful eyes, that the child was very bad — very bad 
indeed. He asked at the doctor’s ; and the doctor told him, 
in a few short words, that “ it was only a bad kind of measles, 
and that the lad might have a struggle for it, but he thought 
he would get through. Vigorous children carried their force 
into everything ; never did things by halves ; if they were ill, 
they were sure to be in a high fever directly ; if they were 
well, there was no peace in the house for their rioting. For 
his part,” continued the doctor, “he thought he was glad he 
had had no children ; as far as he could judge, they were 
pretty much all plague and no profit.” But as he ended his 
speech he sighed ; and Mr. Farquhar was none the less 
convinced that common report was true, which represented 
the clever, prosperous surgeon of Eccleston as bitterly dis- 
appointed at his failure of offspring. 

While these various interests and feelings had their course 
outside the Chapel-house, within there was but one thought 
which possessed all the inmates. When Sally was not 
cooking for the little invalid, she was crying ; for she had 
had a dream about green rushes, not three months ago, 
which, by some queer process of oneiromancy, she interpreted 
to mean the death of a child ; and all Miss Benson’s 
endeavours were directed to making her keep silence to Buth 
about this dream. Sally thought that the mother ought to 
be told. What were dreams sent for but for warnings ? But 
it was just like a pack of Dissenters, who would not believe 
anything like other folks. Miss Benson was too much 
accustomed to Sally’s contempt for Dissenters, as viewed 
from the pinnacle of the Establishment, to pay much atten- 
tion to all this grumbling ; especially as Sally was willing to 
take as much trouble about Leonard as if she believed he was 
going to live, and that his recovery depended upon her care. 
Miss Benson’s great object was to keep her from having any 
confidential talks with Buth ; as if any repetition of the dream 
could have deepened the conviction in Buth’s mind that the 
child would die. 


306 


Jemima makes a Discovery 

It seemed to her that his death would only be the fitting 
punishment for the state of indifference towards him — towards 
life and death — towards all things earthly or divine, into 
which she had suffered herself to fall since her last interview 
with Mr. Donne. She did not understand that such ex- 
haustion is but the natural consequence of violent agitation 
and severe tension of feeling. The only relief she experienced 
was in constantly serving Leonard; she had almost an 
animal’s jealousy lest any one should come between her and 
her young. Mr. Benson saw this jealous suspicion, although 
he could hardly understand it ; but he calmed his sister’s 
wonder and officious kindness, so that the two patiently and 
quietly provided all that Buth might want, but did not inter- 
fere with her right to nurse Leonard. But when he was 
recovering, Mr. Benson, with the slight tone of authority he 
knew how to assume when need was, bade Buth lie down 
and take some rest, while his sister watched. Buth did not 
answer, but obeyed in a dull, weary kind of surprise at being 
so commanded. She lay down by her child, gazing her fill 
at his calm slumber ; and, as she gazed, her large white eye- 
lids were softly pressed down as with a gentle, irresistible 
weight, and she fell asleep. 

She dreamed that she was once more on the lonely shore, 
striving to carry away Leonard from some pursuer — some 
human pursuer — she knew he was human, and she knew 
who he was, although she dared not say his name even to 
herself, he seemed so close and present, gaining on her flying 
footsteps, rushing after her as with the sound of the roaring 
tide. Her feet seemed heavy weights fixed to the ground ; 
they would not move. All at once, just near the shore, a 
great black whirlwind of waves clutched her back to her 
pursuer ; she threw Leonard on to land, which was safety ; 
but whether he reached it or no, or was swept back like her 
into a mysterious something too dreadful to be borne, she 
did not know, for the terror awakened her. At first the 
dream seemed yet a reality, and she thought that the pursuer 
was couched even there, in that very room, and the great 

307 


Ruth 

boom of the sea was still in her ears. But as full conscious- 
ness returned, she saw herself safe in the dear old room — 
the haven of rest — the shelter from storms. A bright fire 
was glowing in the little old-fashioned, cup-shaped grate, 
niched into a corner of the wall, and guarded on either side 
by whitewashed bricks, which served for hobs. On one of 
these the kettle hummed and buzzed, within two points of 
boiling whenever she or Leonard required tea. In her dream 
that home-like sound had been the roar of the relentless sea, 
creeping swiftly on to seize its prey. Miss Benson sat by 
the fire, motionless and still ; it was too dark to read any 
longer without a candle ; but yet on the ceiling and upper 
part of the walls the golden light of the setting sun was 
slowly moving — so slow, and yet a motion gives the feeling 
of rest to the weary yet more than perfect stillness. The old 
clock on the staircase told its monotonous click-clack, in that 
soothing way which more marked the quiet of the house than 
disturbed with any sense of sound. Leonard still slept that 
renovating slumber, almost in her arms, far from that fatal 
pursuing sea, with its human form of cruelty. The dream 
was a vision ; the reality which prompted the dream was 
over and past — Leonard was safe — she was safe ; all this 
loosened the frozen springs, and they gushed forth in her 
heart, and her lips moved in accordance with her thoughts. 

“ What were you saying, my darling ? ” said Miss Benson, 
who caught sight of the motion, and fancied she was asking 
for something. Miss Benson bent over the side of the bed 
on which Ruth lay, to catch the low tones of her voice. 

“ I only said,” replied Ruth timidly, “ thank God ! I have 
so much to thank Him for you don’t know.” 

“ My dear, I am sure we have all of us cause to be thankful 
that our boy is spared. See ! he is wakening up ; and we 
will have a cup of tea together. 

Leonard strode on to perfect health ; but he was made 
older in character and looks by his severe illness. He grew 
tall and thin, and the lovely child was lost in the handsome 
boy. t He began to wonder and to question. Ruth mourned 

308 


Jemima makes a Discovery 

a little over the vanished babyhood, when she was all in all, 
and over the childhood, whose petals had fallen away ; it 
seemed as though two of her children were gone — the one an 
infant, the other a bright, thoughtless darling; and she 
wished that they could have remained quick in her memory 
for ever, instead of being absorbed in loving pride for the 
present boy. But these were only fanciful regrets, flitting 
like shadows across a mirror. Peace and thankfulness were 
once more the atmosphere of her mind ; nor was her uncon- 
sciousness disturbed by any suspicion of Mr. Farquhar’s 
increasing approbation and admiration, which he was dili- 
gently nursing up into love for her. She knew that he had 
sent — she did not know how often he had brought — fruit for 
the convalescent Leonard. She heard, on her return from 
her daily employment, that Mr. Farquhar had bought a little 
gentle pony on which Leonard, weak as he was, might ride. 
To confess the truth, her maternal pride was such that she 
thought that all kindness shown to such a boy as Leonard 
was but natural ; she believed him to be 

“ A child whom all that looked on, loved.” 

As in truth he was ; and the proof of this was daily shown 
in many kind inquiries, and many thoughtful little offerings, 
besides Mr. Farquhar’ s. The poor (warm and kind of heart 
to all sorrow common to humanity) were touched with pity 
for the young widow, whose only child lay ill, and nigh unto 
death. They brought what they could — a fresh egg, when 
eggs were scarce — a few ripe pears that grew on the sunniest 
side of the humblest cottage, where the fruit was regarded as 
a source of income — a call of inquiry, and a prayer that God 
would spare the child, from an old crippled woman, who 
could scarcely drag herself so far as the Chapel-house, yet 
felt her worn and weary heart stirred with a sharp pang of 
sympathy, and a very present remembrance of the time when 
she too was young, and saw the life-breath quiver out of her 
child, now an angel in that heaven which felt more like 
home to the desolate old creature than this empty earth. To 

3 C 9 


Ruth 

all such, when Leonard was better, Buth went, and thanked 
them from her heart. She and the old cripple sat hand in 
hand over the scanty fire on the hearth of the latter, while 
she told in solemn, broken, homely words, how her child 
sickened and died. Tears fell like rain down Buth’s cheeks ; 
but those of the old woman were dry. All tears had been 
wept out of her long ago, and now she sat patient and quiet, 
waiting for death. But after this Buth “ clave unto her,” 
and the two were henceforward a pair of friends. Mr. Far- 
quhar was only included in the general gratitude which she 
felt towards all who had been kind to her boy. 

The winter passed away in deep peace after the storms of 
the autumn, yet every now and then a feeling of insecurity 
made Buth shake for an instant. Those wild autumnal 
storms had torn aside the quiet flowers and herbage that had 
gathered over the wreck of her early life, and shown her that 
all deeds, however hidden and long passed by, have their 
eternal consequences. She turned sick and faint whenever 
Mr. Donne’s name was casually mentioned. No one saw it ; 
but she felt the miserable stop in her heart’s beating, and 
wished that she could prevent it by any exercise of self-com- 
mand. She had never named his identity with Mr. Belling- 
ham, nor had she spoken about the seaside interview. Deep 
shame made her silent and reserved on all her life before 
Leonard’s birth ; from that time she rose again in her self- 
respect, and spoke as openly as a child (when need was) of 
all occurrences which had taken place since then; except 
that she could not, and would not, tell of this mocking echo, 
this haunting phantom, this past, that would not rest in its 
grave. The very circumstance that it was stalking abroad in 
the world, and might reappear at any moment, made her 
a coward : she trembled away from contemplating what the 
reality had been ; only, she clung more faithfully than before 
to the thought of the great God, who was a rock in the 
dreary land, where no shadow was. 

Autumn and winter, with their lowering skies, were less 
dreary than the woeful, desolate feelings that shed a gloom 

3 r o 


Jemima makes a Discovery 

on Jemima. She found too late that she had considered Mr. 
Farquhar so securely her own for so long a time, that her 
heart refused to recognize him as lost to her, unless her 
reason went through the same weary, convincing, miserable 
evidence day after day, and hour after hour. He never 
spoke to her now, except from common civility. He never 
cared for her contradictions; he never tried, with patient 
perseverance, to bring her over to his opinions; he never 
used the wonted wiles (so tenderly remembered now they 
had no existence but in memory) to bring her round out of 
some wilful mood — and such moods were common enough 
now ! Frequently she was sullenly indifferent to the feelings 
of others — -not from any unkindness, but because her heart 
seemed numb and stony, and incapable of sympathy. Then 
afterwards her self-reproach was terrible — in the dead of 
night when no one saw it. With a strange perversity, the 
only intelligence she cared to hear, the only sights she cared 
to see, were the circumstances which gave confirmation to 
the idea that Mr. Farquhar was thinking of Ruth for a wife. 
She craved with stinging curiosity to hear something of their 
affairs every day; partly because the torture which such 
intelligence gave was almost a relief from the deadness of 
her heart to all other interests. 

And so spring ( gioventu dell'anno) came back to her, 
bringing all the contrasts which spring alone can bring to 
add to the heaviness of the soul. The little winged creatures 
filled the air with bursts of joy ; the vegetation came bright 
and hopefully onwards, without any check of nipping frost. 
The ash-trees in the Bradshaws’ garden were out in leaf by 
the middle of May, which that year wore more the aspect of 
summer than most Junes do. The sunny weather mocked 
Jemima, and the unusual warmth oppressed her physical 
powers. She felt very weak and languid ; she was acutely 
sensible that no one else noticed her want of strength; 
father, mother, all seemed too full of other things to care, if, 
as she believed, her life was waning. She herself felt glad 
that it was so. But her delicacy was not unnoticed by all. 

3 TI 


.Ruth 

Her mother often anxiously asked her husband if he did not 
think Jemima was looking ill ; nor did his affirmation to the 
contrary satisfy her, as most of his affirmations did. She 
thought every morning, before she got up, how she could 
tempt Jemima to eat, by ordering some favourite dainty for 
dinner ; in many other little ways she tried to minister to 
her child; but the poor girl’s own abrupt irritability of 
temper had made her mother afraid of openly speaking to 
her about her health. 

Euth, too, saw that Jemima was not looking well. How 
she had become an object of dislike to her former friend she 
did not know; but she was sensible that Miss Bradshaw 
disliked her now. She was not aware that this feeling was 
growing and strengthening almost into repugnance, for she 
seldom saw Jemima out of school-hours, and then only for a 
minute or two. But the evil element of a fellow-creature’s 
dislike oppressed the atmosphere of her life. That fellow- 
creature was one who had once loved her so fondly, and 
whom she still loved, although she had learnt to fear her, as 
we fear those whose faces cloud over when we come in sight 
— who cast unloving glances at us, of which we, though not 
seeing, are conscious, as of some occult influence ; and the 
cause of whose dislike is unknown to us, though every word 
and action seems to increase it. I believe that this sort of 
dislike is only shown by the jealous, and that it renders 
the disliker even more miserable, because more continually 
conscious than the object; but the growing evidences of 
Jemima’s feeling made Euth very unhappy at times. This 
very May, too, an idea had come into her mind, which she 
had tried to repress — namely, that Mr. Farquhar was in love 
with her. It annoyed her extremely ; it made her reproach 
herself that she ever should think such a thing possible. 
She tried to strangle the notion, to drown it, to starve it out 
by neglect — its existence caused her such pain and distress. 

The worst was, he had won Leonard’s heart, who was 
constantly seeking him out ; or, when absent, talking about 
him. The best was some journey connected with business, 

312 


Jemima makes a Discovery 

which would take him to the Continent for several weeks ; 
and, during that time, surely this disagreeble fancy of his 
would die away, if untrue ; and if true, some way would be 
opened by which she might put a stop to all increase of pre- 
dilection on his part, and yet retain him as a friend for 
Leonard — that darling for whom she was far-seeing and 
covetous, and miserly of every scrap of love and kindly 
regard. 

Mr. Farquhar would not have been flattered, if he had 
known how much his departure contributed to Euth’s rest 
of mind on the Saturday afternoon on which he set out on 
his journey. It was a beautiful day ; the sky of that intense 
quivering blue, which seemed as though you could look 
through it for ever, yet not reach the black, infinite space 
which is suggested as lying beyond. Now and then, a thin, 
torn, vaporous cloud floated slowly within the vaulted depth ; 
but the soft air that gently wafted it was not perceptible 
among the leaves on the trees, which did not even tremble. 
Euth sat at her work in the shadow formed by the old grey 
garden wall ; Miss Benson and Sally — the one in the parlour 
window-seat mending stockings, the other hard at work in 
her kitchen — were both within talking distance, for it was 
weather for open doors and windows ; but none of the three 
kept up any continued conversation ; and in the intervals 
Euth sang low a brooding song, such as she remembered her 
mother singing long ago. Now and then she stopped to look 
at Leonard, who was labouring away with vehement energy 
at digging over a small plot of ground, where he meant to 
prick out some celery plants that had been given to him. 
Euth’s heart warmed at the earnest, spirited way in which 
he thrust his large spade deep down into the brown soil, his 
ruddy face glowing, his curly hair wet with the exertion ; 
and yet she sighed to think that the days were over when 
her deeds of skill could give him pleasure. Now, his delight 
was in acting himself ; last year, not fourteen months ago, 
he had watched her making a daisy-chain for him, as if he 
could not admire her cleverness enough ; this year, this week, 

3i3 


Ruth 

when she had been devoting every spare hour to the simple 
tailoring which she performed for her boy (she had always 
made every article he wore, and felt almost jealous of the 
employment), he had come to her with a wistful look, and 
asked when he might begin to have clothes made by a man ? 

Ever since the Wednesday when she had accompanied 
Mary and Elizabeth, at Mrs. Bradshaw’s desire, to be 
measured for spring clothes by the new Eccleston dress- 
maker, she had been looking forward to this Saturday after- 
noon’s pleasure of making summer trousers for Leonard; 
but the satisfaction of the employment was a little taken 
away by Leonard’s speech. It was a sign, however, that her 
life was very quiet and peaceful, that she had leisure to think 
upon the thing at all ; and often she forgot it entirely in her 
low, chanting song, or in listening to the thrush warbling out 
his afternoon ditty to his patient mate in the holly-bush below. 

The distant rumble of carts through the busy streets (it 
was market- day) not only formed a low rolling bass to the 
nearer and pleasanter sounds, but enhanced the sense of 
peace by the suggestion of the contrast afforded to the repose 
of the garden by the bustle not far off. 

But, besides physical din and bustle, there is mental 
strife and turmoil. 

That afternoon, as Jemima was restlessly wandering 
about the house, her mother desired her to go on an errand 
to Mrs. Pearson’s, the new dressmaker, in order to give some 
directions about her sisters’ new frocks. Jemima went, 
rather than have the trouble of resisting ; or else she would 
have preferred staying at home, moving or being outwardly 
quiet according to her own fitful will. Mrs. Bradshaw, who, 
as I have said, had been aware for some time that something 
was wrong with her daughter, and was very anxious to set 
it to rights if she only knew how, had rather planned this 
errand with a view to dispel Jemima’s melancholy. 

“And, Mimie dear,” said her mother, “when you are 
there, look out for a new bonnet for yourself ; she has got 
some very pretty ones, and your old one is so shabby.” 

3i4 


Jemima makes a Discovery 

“ It does for me, mother,” said Jemima heavily. “ I 
don’t want a new bonnet.” 

“ But I want you to have one, my lassie. I want my 
girl to look well and nice.” 

There was something of homely tenderness in Mrs. Brad- 
shaw’s tone that touched Jemima’s heart. She went to her 
mother, and kissed her with more of affection than she had 
shown to any one for weeks before ; and the kiss was re- 
turned with warm fondness. 

“ I think you love me, mother,” said Jemima. 

“We all love you, dear, if you would but think so. And 
if you want anything, or wish for anything, only tell me, 
and with a little patience, I can get your father to give it you, 
I know. Only, be happy, there’s a good girl.” 

“ Be happy ! as if one could by an effort of will ! ” thought 
Jemima as she went along the street, too absorbed in herself 
to notice the bows of acquaintances and friends, but instinc- 
tively guiding herself right among the throng and press of 
carts, and gigs, and market people in High Street. 

But her mother’s tones and looks, with their comforting 
power, remained longer in her recollection than the incon- 
sistency of any words spoken. When she had completed her 
errand about the frocks, she asked to look at some bonnets, 
in order to show her recognition of her mother’s kind 
thought. 

Mrs. Pearson was a smart, clever-looking woman of five 
or six and thirty. She had all the variety of small-talk at 
her finger-ends, that was formerly needed by barbers to 
amuse the people who came to be shaved. She had admired 
the town till Jemima was weary of its praises, sick and 
oppressed by its sameness, as she had been these many 
weeks. 

“ Here are some bonnets, ma’am, that will be just the 
thing for you — elegant and tasty, yet quite of the simple 
style, suitable to young ladies. Oblige me by trying on this 
white silk ! ” 

Jemima looked at herself in the glass ; she was obliged 
315 


Ruth 

to own it was very becoming, and perhaps not the less so for 
the flush of modest shame which came into her cheeks, as 
she heard Mrs. Pearson’s open praises of the “ rich, beautiful 
hair,” and the “ Oriental eyes ” of the wearer. 

“ I induced the young lady who accompanied your sisters 
the other day — the governess, is she, ma’am ? ” 

“ Yes — Mrs. Denbigh is her name,” said Jemima, clouding 
over. 

“ Thank you, ma’am. Well, I persuaded Mrs. Denbigh 
to try on that bonnet, and you can’t think how charming she 
looked in it ; and yet I don’t think it became her as much as 
it does you.” 

“ Mrs. Denbigh is very beautiful,” said Jemima, taking 
off the bonnet, and not much inclined to try on any other. 

“ Very, ma’am. Quite a peculiar style of beauty. If I 
might be allowed, I should say that hers was a Grecian 
style of loveliness, while yours was Oriental. She reminded 
me of a young person I once knew in Fordham.” Mrs. 
Pearson sighed an audible sigh. 

“ In Fordham ! ” said Jemima, remembering that Euth 
had once spoken of the place as one in which she had spent 
some time, while the county in which it was situated was 
the same in which Euth was born. “ In Fordham ! Why, 
I think Mrs. Denbigh comes from that neighbourhood.” 

“ Oh, ma’am ! she cannot be the young person I mean — 
I am sure, ma’am — holding the position she does in your 
establishment. I should hardly say I knew her myself ; for 
I only saw her two or three times at my sister’s house ; but 
she was so remarked for her beauty, that I remember her 
face quite well — the more so, on account of her vicious 
conduct afterwards.” 

“ Her vicious conduct ! ” repeated Jemima, convinced by 
these words that there could be no identity between Euth 
and “ young person ” alluded to. “ Then it could not have 
been our Mrs. Denbigh.” 

“ Oh no, ma’am ! I am sure I should be sorry to be 
understood to have suggested anything of the kind. I beg 

316 


Jemima makes a Discovery 

your pardon if I did so. All I meant to say — and perhaps 
that was a liberty I ought not to have taken, considering 
what Ruth Hilton was ” 

“ Ruth Hilton ! ” said Jemima, turning suddenly round, 
and facing Mrs. Pearson. 

“ Yes, ma’am, that was the name of the young person I 
allude to.” 

“ Tell me about her — what did she do ? ” asked Jemima, 
subduing her eagerness of tone and look as best she might, 
but trembling as on the verge of some strange discovery. 

“ I don’t know whether I ought to tell you, ma’am — it is 
hardly a fit story for a young lady ; but this Ruth Hilton 
was an apprentice to my sister-in-law, who had a first-rate 
business in Fordham, which brought her a good deal of 
patronage from the county families ; and this young creature 
was very artful and bold, and thought sadly too much of her 
beauty ; and, somehow, she beguiled a young gentleman, 
who took her into keeping (I am sure, ma’am, I ought to 
apologise for polluting your ears) ” 

“ Go on,” said Jemima breathlessly. 

“ I don’t know much more. His mother followed him 
into Wales. She was a lady of a great deal of religion, and 
a very old family, and was much shocked at her son’s mis- 
fortune in being captivated by such a person ; but she led 
him to repentance, and took him to Paris, where, I think, 
she died ; but I am not sure, for, owing to family differences, 
I have not been on terms for some years with my sister-in- 
law, who was my informant.” 

“Who died?” interrupted Jemima — “the young man’s 
mother, or — or Ruth Hilton ? ” 

“ Oh dear, ma’am ! pray don’t confuse the two. It was 

the mother, Mrs. I forget the name — something like 

Billington. It was the lady who died.” 

“And what became of the other?” asked Jemima, 
unable, as her dark suspicion seemed thickening, to speak 
the name. 

“ The girl ? Why, ma’am, what could become of her ? 
3 1 7 


Ruth 

Not that I know exactly— only one knows they can but go 
from bad to worse, poor creatures ! God forgive me, if I am 
speaking too transiently of such degraded women, who, after 
all, are a disgrace to our sex.” 

“ Then you know nothing more about her ? ” asked 
Jemima. 

“ I did hear that she had gone off with another gentleman 
that she met with in Wales, but I’m sure I can’t tell who 
told me.” 

There was a little pause. Jemima was pondering on all 
she had heard. Suddenly she felt that Mrs. Pearson’s eyes 
were upon her, watching her ; not with curiosity, but with 
a newly- awakened intelligence ; — and yet she must ask one 
more question ; but she tried to ask it in an indifferent, 
careless tone, handling the bonnet while she spoke. 

“ How long is it since all this — all you have been telling 
me about — happened ! ” (Leonard was eight years old.) 

“ Why — let me see. It was before I was married, and I 
was married three years, and poor dear Pearson has been 
deceased five — I should say going on for nine years this 
summer. Blush roses would become your complexion, 
perhaps, better than these lilacs,” said she, as with super- 
ficial observation she watched Jemima turning the bonnet 
round and round on her hand — the bonnet that her dizzy 
eyes did not see. 

“ Thank you. It is very pretty. But I don’t want a 
bonnet. I beg your pardon for taking up your time.” And 
with an abrupt bow to the discomfited Mrs. Pearson, she 
was out and away in the open air, threading her way with 
instinctive energy along the crowded street. Suddenly she 
turned round, and went back to Mrs. Pearson’s with even 
more rapidity than she had been walking away from the 
house. 

“ I have changed my mind,” said she, as she came, 
breathless, up into the show-room. “ I will take the bonnet. 
How much is it ? ” 

“ Allow me to change the flowers ; it can be done in an 
3i8 


Jemima makes a Discovery 

instant, and then you can see if you would not prefer the 
roses ; but with either foliage it is a lovely little bonnet,” 
said Mrs. Pearson, holding it up admiringly on her hand. 

“ Oh ! never mind the flowers — yes ! change them to the 
roses.” And she stood by, agitated (Mrs. Pearson thought 
with impatience), all the time the milliner was making the 
alteration with skilful, busy haste. 

“By the way,” said Jemima, when she saw the last 
touches were being given, and that she must not delay 
executing the purpose which was the real cause of her 
return — “ Papa, I am sure, would not like your connecting 
Mrs. Denbigh’s name with such a — story as you have been 
telling me.” 

“ Oh dear ! ma’am, I have too much respect for you all 
to think of doing such a thing ! Of course I know, ma’am, 
that it is not to be cast up to any lady that she is like any- 
body disreputable.” 

“ But I would rather you did not name the likeness to 
any one,” said Jemima ; “ not to any one. Don’t tell any 
one the story you have told me this morning.” 

“ Indeed, ma’am, I should never think of such a thing ! 
My poor husband could have borne witness that I am as 
close as the grave where there is anything to conceal.” 

“Oh dear!” said Jemima, “Mrs. Pearson, there is 
nothing to conceal ; only you must not speak about it.” 

“ I certainly shall not do it, ma’am ; you may rest assured 
of me.” 

This time Jemima did not go towards home, but in the 
direction of the outskirts of the town, on the hilly side. She 
had some dim recollection of hearing her sisters ask if they 
might not go and invite Leonard and his mother to tea; 
and how could she face Buth, after the conviction had taken 
possession of her heart that she, and the sinful creature she. 
had just heard of, were one and the same ? 

It was yet only the middle of the afternoon ; the hours 
were early in the old-fashioned town of Eccleston. Soft 
white clouds had come slowly sailing up out of the west ; 

3 T 9 


Ruth 

the plain was flecked with thin floating shadows, gently 
borne along by the westerly wind that was waving the 
long grass in the hay-fields into alternate light and shade. 
Jemima went into one of these fields, lying by the side of 
the upland road. She was stunned by the shock she had 
received. The diver leaving the green sward, smooth and 
known, where his friends stand with their familiar smiling 
faces, admiring his glad bravery — the diver, down in an 
instant in the horrid depths of the sea, close to some strange, 
ghastly, lidless-eyed monster, can hardly more feel his blood 
curdle at the near terror than did Jemima now. Two hours 
ago — but a point of time on her mind’s dial — she had never 
imagined that she should ever come in contact with any one 
who had committed open sin ; she had never shaped her 
conviction into words and sentences, but still it was there , 
that all the respectable, all the family and religious circum- 
stances of her fife, would hedge her in, and guard her from 
ever encountering the great shock of coming face to face 
with Vice. Without being pharisaical in her estimation of 
herself, she had all a pharisee’s dread of publicans and 
sinners, and all a child’s cowardliness — that cowardliness 
which prompts it to shut its eyes against the object of 
terror, rather than acknowledge its existence with brave 
faith. Her father’s often reiterated speeches had not been 
without their effect. He drew a clear line of partition, 
which separated mankind into two great groups, to one of 
which, by the grace of God, he and his belonged ; while the 
other was composed of those whom it was his duty to try 
and reform, and bring the whole force of his morality to 
bear upon, with lectures, admonitions, and exhortations — a 
duty to be performed, because it was a duty — but with very 
little of that Hope and Faith which is the Spirit that maketh 
alive. Jemima had rebelled against these hard doctrines of 
her father’s, but their frequent repetition had had its effect, 
and led her to look upon those who had gone astray with 
shrinking, shuddering recoil, instead of with a pity so 
Christ-like as to have both wisdom and tenderness in it. 

3 2 ° 


Jemima makes a Discovery 

And now she saw among her own familiar associates 
one, almost her house-fellow, who had been stained with 
that evil most repugnant to her womanly modesty, that 
would fain have ignored its existence altogether. She 
loathed the thought of meeting Euth again. She wished 
that she could take her up, and put her down at a distance 
somewhere — anywhere — where she might never see or hear 
of her more ; never be reminded, as she must be whenever 
she saw her, that such things were in this sunny, bright, 
lark-singing earth, over which the blue dome of heaven bent 
softly down as Jemima sat in the hay-field that June after- 
noon ; her cheeks flushed and red, but her lips pale and com- 
pressed, and her eyes full of a heavy, angry sorrow. It was 
Saturday, and the people in that part of the country left their 
work an hour earlier on that day. By this, Jemima knew it 
must be growing time for her to be at home. She had had 
so much of conflict in her own mind of late, that she had 
grown to dislike struggle, or speech, or explanation ; and so 
strove to conform to times and hours much more than she 
had done in happier days. But oh ! how full of hate her 
heart was growing against the world ! And oh ! how she 
sickened at the thought of seeing Euth ! Who was to be 
trusted more, if Euth — calm, modest, delicate, dignified Euth 
— had a memory blackened by sin ? 

As she went heavily along, the thought of Mr. Farquhar 
came into her mind. It showed how terrible had been the 
stun, that he had been forgotten until now. With the thought 
of him came in her first merciful feeling towards Euth. This 
would never have been, had there been the least latent sus- 
picion in Jemima’s jealous mind that Euth had purposely 
done aught — looked a look — uttered a word — modulated a 
tone — for the sake of attracting. As Jemima recalled all the 
passages of their intercourse, she slowly confessed to herself 
how pure and simple had been all Euth’s ways in relation to 
Mr. Farquhar. It was not merely that there had been no 
coquetting, but there had been simple unconsciousness on 
Euth’s part, for so long a time after Jemima had discovered 

321 y 


Ruth 

Mr. Farquhar’s inclination for her ; and, when at length she 
had slowly awakened to some perception of the state of his 
feelings, there had been a modest, shrinking dignity of 
manner, not startled, or emotional, or even timid, but pure, 
grave, and quiet ; and this conduct of Ruth’s Jemima in- 
stinctively acknowledged to be of necessity transparent and 
sincere. Now, and here, there was no hypocrisy ; but some 
time, somewhere, on the part of somebody, what hypocrisy, 
what lies must have been acted, if not absolutely spoken, 
before Ruth could have been received by them all as the 
sweet, gentle, girlish widow, which she remembered they 
had all believed Mrs. Denbigh to be when first she came 
among them ! Could Mr. and Miss Benson know ? Could 
they be a party to the deceit ? Not sufficiently acquainted 
with the world to understand how strong had been the 
temptation to play the part they did, if they wished to give 
Ruth a chance, Jemima could not believe them guilty of such 
deceit as the knowledge of Mrs. Denbigh’s previous conduct 
would imply; and yet how it darkened the latter into a 
treacherous hypocrite, with a black secret shut up in her soul 
for years — living in apparent confidence, and daily household 
familiarity with the Bensons for years, yet never telling the 
remorse that ought to be corroding her heart ! Who was 
true? Who was not? Who was good and pure? Who 
was not? The very foundations of Jemima’s belief in her 
mind were shaken. 

Could it be false? Could there be two Ruth Hiltons? 
She went over every morsel of evidence. It could not be. 
She knew that Mrs. Denbigh’s former name had been Hilton. 
She had heard her speak casually, but charily, of having 
lived in Fordham. She knew she had been in Wales but a 
short time before she made her appearance in Eccleston. 
There was no doubt of the identity. Into the middle of 
J emima’s pain and horror at the afternoon’s discovery, there 
came a sense of the power which the knowledge of this 
secret gave her over Ruth ; but this was no relief, only an 
aggravation of the regret with which Jemima looked back on 

322 


Jemima makes a Discovery' 

her state of ignorance. It was no wonder that when she 
arrived at home, she was so oppressed with headache that 
she had to go to bed directly. 

“ Quiet, mother ! quiet, dear, dear mother ” (for she clung 
to the known and tried goodness of her mother more than 
ever now), “ that is all I want.” And she was left to the 
stillness of her darkened room, the blinds idly flapping to 
and fro in the soft evening breeze, and letting in the rustling 
sound of the branches which waved close to her window, and 
the thrush’s gurgling warble, and the distant hum of the 
busy town. 

Her jealousy was gone — she knew not how or where. 
She might shun and recoil from Euth, but she now thought 
that she could never more be jealous of her. In her pride 
of innocence, she felt almost ashamed that such a feeling 
could have had existence. Could Mr. Farquhar hesitate 

between her own self and one who No ! she could not 

name what Euth had been, even in thought. And yet he 
might never know, so fair a seeming did her rival wear. 
Oh! for one ray of God’s holy light to know what was 
seeming, and what was truth, in this traitorous hollow earth ! 
It might be — she used to think such things possible, before 
sorrow had embittered her — that Euth had worked her way 
through the deep purgatory of repentance up to something 
like purity again ; God only knew ! If her present goodness 
was real — if, after having striven back thus far on the heights, 
a fellow- woman was to throw her down into some terrible 
depth with her unkind, incontinent tongue, that would be too 
cruel ! And yet, if — there was such woeful uncertainty and 

deceit somewhere — if Euth No ! that, Jemima with 

noble candour admitted, was impossible. Whatever Euth 
had been, she was good, and to be respected as such, now. 
It did not follow that Jemima was to preserve the secret 
always ; she doubted her own power to do so, if Mr. Farquhar 
came home again, and were still constant in his admiration 
of Mrs. Denbigh, and if Mrs. Denbigh gave him any — the 
least encouragement. But this last she thought, from what 

3 2 3 


Ruth 

she knew of Ruth’s character, was impossible. Only, what 
was impossible after this afternoon’s discovery? At any 
rate, she would watch and wait. Come what might, Ruth 
was in her power. And, strange to say, this last certainty 
gave Jemima a kind of protecting, almost pitying, feeling for 
Ruth. Her horror at the wrong was not diminished ; but, 
the more she thought of the struggles that the wrongdoer 
must have made to extricate herself, the more she felt how 
cruel it would be to baffle all by revealing what had been. 
But for her sisters’ sake she had a duty to perform; she 
must watch Ruth. For her lover’s sake she could not have 
helped watching ; but she was too much stunned to recognise 
the force of her love, while duty seemed the only stable thing 
to cling to. For the present she would neither meddle nor 
mar in Ruth’s course of life. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

mr. Bradshaw’s virtuous indignation 

So it was that Jemima no longer avoided Ruth, nor mani- 
fested by word or look the dislike which for a long time she 
had been scarce concealing. Ruth could not help noticing 
that Jemima always sought to be in her presence while she 
was at Mr. Bradshaw’s house ; either when daily teaching 
Mary and Elizabeth, or when she came as an occasional 
visitor with Mr. and Miss Benson, or by herself. Up to this 
time Jemima had used no gentle skill to conceal the abrupt- 
ness with which she would leave the room rather than that 
Ruth and she should be brought into contact — rather than 
that it should fall to her lot to entertain Ruth during any 
part of the evening. It was months since Jemima had left 
off sitting in the schoolroom, as had been her wont during 
the first few years of Ruth’s governess-ship. Now, each 

3 2 4 


Mr. Bradshaw’s Virtuous Indignation 

morning Miss Bradshaw seated herself at a little round 
table in the window, at her work, or at her writing ; but, 
whether she sewed, or wrote, or read, Euth felt that she was 
always watching — watching. At first Euth had welcomed 
all these changes in habit and behaviour, as giving her a 
chance, she thought, by some patient waiting or some oppor- 
tune show of enduring, constant love, to regain her lost 
friend’s regard; but by-and-by the icy chillness, immovable 
and grey, struck more to her heart than many sudden words 
of unkindness could have done. They might be attributed 
to the hot impulses of a hasty temper — to the vehement 
anger of an accuser ; but this measured manner was the 
conscious result of some deep-seated feeling ; this cold stern- 
ness befitted the calm implacability of some severe judge. 
The watching, which Euth felt was ever upon her, made her 
unconsciously shiver, as you would if you saw that the 
passionless eyes of the dead were visibly gazing upon you. 
Her very being shrivelled and parched up in Jemima’s 
presence, as if blown upon by a bitter, keen east wind. 

Jemima bent every power she possessed upon the one 
object of ascertaining what Euth really was. Sometimes 
the strain was very painful ; the constant tension made her 
soul weary; and she moaned aloud, and upbraided circum- 
stance (she dared not go higher — to the Maker of circum- 
stance) for having deprived her of her unsuspicious, happy 
ignorance. 

Things were in this state when Mr. Eichard Bradshaw 
came on his annual home visit. He was to remain another 
year in London, and then to return and be admitted into the 
firm. After he had been a week at home he grew tired of 
the monotonous regularity of his father’s household, and 
began to complain of it to Jemima. 

“ I wish Farquhar were at home. Though he is such a 
stiff, quiet old fellow, his coming in in the evenings makes a 
change. What has become of the Millses ? They used to 
drink tea with us sometimes, formerly.” 

“ Oh ! papa and Mr. Mills took opposite sides at the 

3 2 5 


Ruth 

election, and we have never visited since. I don't think 
they are any great loss.” 

“ Anybody is a loss — the stupidest bore that ever was 
would be a blessing, if he only would come in sometimes.” 

“ Mr. and Miss Benson have drunk tea here twice since 
you came.” 

“ Come, that’s capital ! Apropos of stupid bores, you 
talk of the Bensons. I did not think you had so much 
discrimination, my little sister.” 

Jemima looked up in surprise ; and then reddened 
angrily. 

“ I never meant to say a word against Mr. or Miss 
Benson, and that you know quite well, Dick.” 

“ Never mind ! I won’t tell tales. They are stupid old 
fogeys, but they are better than nobody, especially as that 
handsome governess of the girls always comes with them to 
be looked at.” 

There was a little pause ; Bichard broke it by saying — 

“ Do you know, Mimie, I’ve a notion, if she plays her 
cards well, she may hook Farquhar ! ” 

“Who?” asked Jemima shortly, though she knew quite 
well. 

“ Mrs. Denbigh, to be sure. We were talking of her, you 
know. Farquhar asked me to dine with him at his hotel as 
he passed through town, and — I’d my own reasons for going 
and trying to creep up his sleeve — I wanted him to tip me, 
as he used to do.” 

“ For shame ! Dick,” burst in Jemima. 

“ Well, well ! not tip me exactly, but lend me some 
money. The governor keeps me deucedly short.” 

“ Why ! it was only yesterday, when my father was 
speaking about your expenses, and your allowance, I heard 
you say that you’d more than you knew how to spend.” 

“ Don’t you see that was the perfection of art ? If my 
father had thought me extravagant, he would have kept me 
in with a tight rein ; as it is, I’m in great hopes of a hand- 
some addition, and I can tell you it’s needed. If my father 

326 


Mr. Bradshaw’s Virtuous Indignation 

had given me what I ought to have had at first, I should not 
have been driven to the speculations and messes I’ve got 
into.” 

“ What speculations? What messes?” asked Jemima, 
with anxious eagerness. 

“ Oh ! messes was not the right word. Speculations 
hardly was ; for they are sure to turn out well, and then I 
shall surprise my father with my riches.” He saw that he 
had gone a little too far in his confidence, and was trying to 
draw in. 

“ But what do you mean ? Do explain it to me.” 

“ Never you trouble your head about my business, my 
dear. Women can’t understand the share-market, and such 
things. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the awful blunders you 
made when you tried to read the state of the money-market 
aloud to my father that night when he had lost his spectacles. 
What were we talking of? Oh! of Farquhar and pretty 
Mrs. Denbigh. Yes ! I soon found out that was the subject 
my gentleman liked me to dwell on. He did not talk about 
her much himself, but his eyes sparkled when I told him 
what enthusiastic letters Polly and Elizabeth wrote about 
her. How old do you think she is ? ” 

“ I know ! ” said Jemima. “ At least I heard her age 
spoken about, amongst other things, when first she came. 
She will be five-and-twenty this autumn.” 

“ And Farquhar is forty, if he is a day. She’s young, 
too, to have such a boy as Leonard ; younger-looking, or full 
as young-looking as she is ! I tell you what, Mimie, she 
looks younger than you. How old are you? Three-and- 
twenty, ain’t it ? ” 

“ Last March,” replied Jemima. 

“You’ll have to make haste and pick up somebody, 
if you’re losing your good looks at this rate. Why, Jemima, 
I thought you had a good chance of Farquhar a year or two 
ago. How come you to have lost him ? I’d far rather you’d 
had him than that proud, haughty Mrs. Denbigh, who flashes 
her great grey eyes upon me if ever I dare to pay her a 

3 2 7 


Ruth 

compliment. She ought to think it an honour that I take 
that much notice of her. Besides, Farquhar is rich, and it’s 
keeping the business of the firm in one’s own family ; and if 
he marries Mrs. Denbigh she will be sure to be wanting 
Leonard in when he’s of age, and I won’t have that. Have 
a try for Farquhar, Mimie ! Ten to one it’s not too late. I 
wish I’d brought you a pink bonnet down. You go about 
so dowdy — so careless of how you look.” 

“ If Mr. Farquhar has not liked me as I am,” said 
Jemima, choking, “I don’t want to owe him to a pink 
bonnet.” 

“ Nonsense ! I don’t like to have my sisters’ governess 
stealing a march on my sister. I tell you Farquhar is worth 
trying for. If you’ll wear the pink bonnet I’ll give it to you, 
and I’ll back you against Mrs. Denbigh. I think you might 
have done something with ‘ our member,’ as my father calls 
him, when you had him so long in the house. But, altogether, 
I should like Farquhar best for a brother-in-law. By the 
way, have you heard down here that Donne is going to be 
married? I heard of it in town, just before I left, from a 
man that was good authority. Some Sir Thomas Campbell’s 
seventh daughter: a girl without a penny; father ruined 
himself by gambling, and obliged to live abroad. But 
Donne is not a man to care for any obstacle, from all 
accounts, when once he has taken a fancy. It was love at 
first sight, they say. I believe he did not know of her 
existence a month ago.” 

“ No ! we have not heard of it,” replied Jemima. “ My 
father will like to know ; tell it him ; ” continued she, as she 
was leaving the room, to be alone, in order to still her 
habitual agitation whenever she heard Mr. Farquhar and 
Ruth coupled together. 

Mr. Farquhar came home the day before Richard Brad- 
shaw left for town. He dropped in after tea at the 
Bradshaws’ ; he was evidently disappointed to see none but 
the family there, and looked round whenever the door 
opened. 


328 


Mr. Bradshaw’s Virtuous Indignation 

“ Look ! look ! said Dick to kis sister. “ I wanted to 
make sure of his coming in to-night, to save me my father’s 
parting exhortations against the temptations of the world 
(as if I did not know much more of the world than he does !), 
so I used a spell I thought would prove efficacious ; I told 
him that we should be by ourselves, with the exception of 
Mrs. Denbigh, and look how he is expecting her to come in ! ” 

J emima did see ; did understand. She understood, too, 
why certain packets were put carefully on one side, apart 
from the rest of the purchases of Swiss toys and jewellery, 
by which Mr. Farquhar proved that none of Mr. Bradshaw’s 
family had been forgotten by him during his absence. 
Before the end of the evening, she was very conscious that 
her sore heart had not forgotten how to be jealous. Her 
brother did not allow a word, a look, or an incident, which 
might be supposed on Mr. Farquhar’s side to refer to Buth 
to pass unnoticed; he pointed out all to his sister, never 
dreaming of the torture he was inflicting, only anxious to 
prove his own extreme penetration. At length Jemima 
could stand it no longer, and left the room. She went into 
the schoolroom, where the shutters were not closed, as it 
only looked into the garden. She opened the window, to 
let the cool night air blow in on her hot cheeks. The clouds 
were hurrying over the moon’s face in a tempestuous and 
unstable manner, making all things seem unreal ; now clear 
out in its bright light, now trembling and quivering in 
shadow. The pain at her heart seemed to make Jemima’s 
brain grow dull; she laid her head on her arms, which 
rested on the window-sill, and grew dizzy with the sick 
weary notion that the earth was wandering lawless and 
aimless through the heavens, where all seemed one tossed 
and whirling wrack of clouds. It was a waking nightmare, 
from the uneasy heaviness of which she was thankful to be 
roused by Dick’s entrance. 

“ What, you are here, are you ? I have been looking 
everywhere for you. I wanted to ask you if you have any 
spare money you could lend me for a few weeks ? ” 

3 2 9 


Ruth 

“How much do you want?” asked Jemima, in a dull, 
hopeless voice. 

“ Oh ! the more the better. But I should be glad of 
any trifle, I am kept so confoundedly short.” 

When Jemima returned with her little store, even her 
careless, selfish brother was struck by the wanness of her 
face, lighted by the bed-candle she carried. 

“ Come, Mimie, don’t give it up. If I were you, I would 
have a good try against Mrs. Denbigh. I’ll send you the 
bonnet as soon as ever I get back to town, and you pluck 
up a spirit, and I’ll back you against her even yet.” 

It seemed to Jemima strange— and yet only a fitting part 
of this strange, chaotic world — to find that her brother, who 
was the last person to whom she could have given her con- 
fidence in her own family, and almost the last person of her 
acquaintance to whom she could look for real help and 
sympathy, should have been the only one to hit upon the 
secret of her love. And the idea passed away from his 
mind as quickly as all ideas not bearing upon his own self- 
interests did. 

The night, the sleepless night, was so crowded and 
haunted by miserable images, that she longed for day ; and 
when day came, with its stinging realities, she wearied and 
grew sick for the solitude of night. For the next week, she 
seemed to see and hear nothing but what confirmed the 
idea of Mr. Farquhar’s decided attachment to Ruth. Even 
her mother spoke of it as a thing which was impending, 
and which she wondered how Mr. Bradshaw would like; 
for his approval or disapproval was the standard by which 
she measured all things. 

“ Oh ! merciful God,” prayed Jemima, in the dead silence 
of the night, “ the strain is too great — I cannot bear it longer 
— my life — my love — the very essence of me, which is 
myself through time and eternity; and on the other side 
there is all-pitying Charity. If she had not been what she 
is— if she had shown any sign of triumph — any knowledge 
of her prize — if she had made any effort to gain his dear 

33 ° 


Mr. Bradshaw’s Virtuous Indignation 

heart, I must have given way long ago, and taunted her, 
even if I did not tell others — taunted her, even though I 
sank down to the pit the next moment. 

“ The temptation is too strong for me. O Lord ! where 
is Thy peace that I believed in, in my childhood ? — that I 
hear people speaking of now as if it hushed up the troubles 
of life, and had not to be sought for — sought for, as with 
tears of blood ! ” 

There was no sound nor answer to this wild imploring 
cry, which Jemima half thought must force out a sign from 
Heaven. But there was a dawn stealing on through the 
darkness of her night. 

If was glorious weather for the end of August. The 
nights were as full of light as the days — everywhere, save 
in the low dusky meadows by the river- side, where the 
mists rose and blended the pale sky with the lands below. 
Unknowing of the care and trouble around them, Mary and 
Elizabeth exulted in the weather, and saw some new glory 
in every touch of the year’s decay. They were clamorous 
for an expedition to the hills, before the calm stillness of 
the autumn should be disturbed by storms. They gained 
permission to go on the next Wednesday — the next half- 
holiday. They had won their mother over to consent to a 
full holiday, but their father would not hear of it. Mrs. 
Bradshaw had proposed an early dinner, but the idea was 
scouted at by the girls. What would the expedition be 
worth if they did not carry their dinners with them in 
baskets ? Anything out of a basket, and eaten in the open 
air, was worth twenty times as much as the most sumptuous 
meal in the house. So the baskets were packed up, while 
Mrs. Bradshaw wailed over probable colds to be caught 
from sitting on the damp ground. Buth and Leonard were 
to go : they four. Jemima had refused all invitations to 
make one of the party ; and yet she had a half- sympathy 
with her sisters’ joy — a sort of longing, lingering look back 
to the time when she too would have revelled in the 
prospect that lay before them. They, too, would grow up, 

33i 


Ruth 

and suffer; though now they played, regardless of their 
doom. 

The morning was bright and glorious ; just cloud enough, 
as some one said, to make the distant plain look beautiful 
from the hills, with its floating shadows passing over the 
golden corn-fields. Leonard was to join them at twelve, 
when his lessons with Mr. Benson, and the girls’ with their 
masters, should be over. Ruth took off her bonnet, and 
folded her shawl with her usual dainty, careful neatness, and 
laid them aside in a corner of the room to be in readiness. 
She tried to forget the pleasure she always anticipated from 
a long walk towards the hills while the morning’s work went 
on ; but she showed enough of sympathy to make the girls 
cling round her with many a caress of joyous love. Every- 
thing was beautiful in their eyes ; from the shadows of the 
quivering leaves on the wall to the glittering beads of dew, 
not yet absorbed by the sun, which decked the gossamer 
web in the vine outside the window. Eleven o’clock struck. 
The Latin master went away, wondering much at the radiant 
faces of his pupils, and thinking that it was only very young 
people who could take such pleasure in the “ Delectus.” 
Ruth said, “Now do let us try to be very steady this next 
hour,” and Mary pulled back Ruth’s head, and gave the 
pretty budding mouth a kiss. They sat down to work, while 
Mrs. Denbigh read aloud. A fresh sun-gleam burst into the 
room, and they looked at each other with glad, anticipating 
eyes. 

Jemima came in, ostensibly to seek for a book, but really 
from that sort of restless weariness of any one place or 
employment which had taken possession of her since Mr. 
Earquhar’s return. She stood before the bookcase in the 
recess, languidly passing over the titles in search of the one 
she wanted. Ruth’s voice lost a tone or two of its peaceful- 
ness, and her eyes looked more dim and anxious at Jemima’s 
presence. She wondered in her heart if she dared to ask 
Miss Bradshaw to accompanying them in their expedition. 
Eighteen months ago she would have urged it on her friend 

332 


Mr. Bradshaw’s Virtuous Indignation 

with soft, loving entreaty ; now she was afraid even to pro- 
pose it as a hard possibility ; everything she did or said was 
taken so wrongly— seemed to add to the old dislike, or 
the later stony contempt with which Miss Bradshaw had 
regarded her. While they were in this way Mr. Bradshaw 
came into the room. His entrance — his being at home at 
all at this time — was so unusual a thing, that the reading was 
instantly stopped ; and all four involuntarily looked at him, 
as if expecting some explanation of his unusual proceeding. 

His face was almost purple with suppressed agitation. 

“ Mary and Elizabeth, leave the room. Don’t stay to 
pack up your books. Leave the room, I say ! ” He spoke 
with trembling anger, and the frightened girls obeyed without 
a word. A cloud passing over the sun cast a cold gloom 
into the room which was late so bright and beaming ; but, 
by equalising the light, it took away the dark shadow from 
the place where Jemima had been standing, and her figure 
caught her father’s eye. 

“ Leave the room, Jemima,” said he. 

“ Why, father ? ” replied she, in an opposition that was 
strange even to herself, but which was prompted by the 
sullen passion which seethed below the stagnant surface of 
her life, and which sought a vent in defiance. She main- 
tained her ground, facing round upon her father, and Ruth — 
Ruth, who had risen, and stood trembling, shaking, a 
lightning- fear having shown her the precipice on which she 
stood. It was of no use ; no quiet, innocent life — no pro- 
found silence, even to her own heart, as to the Past ; the old 
offence could never be drowned in the Deep ; but thus, when 
all was calm on the great, broad, sunny sea, it rose to the 
surface, and faced her with its unclosed eyes and its ghastly 
countenance. The blood bubbled up to her brain, and made 
such a sound there, as of boiling waters, that she did not hear 
the words which Mr. Bradshaw first spoke; indeed, his 
speech was broken and disjointed by intense passion. But 
she needed not to hear ; she knew. As she rose up at first, 
so she stood now — numb and helpless. When her ears 

333 


Ruth 

heard again (as if the sounds were drawing nearer, and 
becoming more distinct, from some faint, vague distance of 
space), Mr. Bradshaw was saying, “ If there be one sin I 
hate — I utterly loathe — more than all others, it is wantonness. 
It includes all other sins. It is but of a piece that you 
should have come with your sickly,* hypocritical face impos- 
ing upon us all. I trust Benson did not know of it — for his 
own sake, I trust not. Before God, if he got you into my 
house on false pretences, he shall find his charity at other 
men’s expense shall cost him dear — you — the common talk 

of Eccleston for your profligacy ” He was absolutely 

choked by his boiling indignation. Ruth stood speechless, 
motionless. Her head drooped a little forward ; her eyes 
were more than half veiled by the large quivering lids ; her 
arms hung down straight and heavy. At last she heaved the 
weight off her heart enough to say, in a faint, moaning voice, 
speaking with infinite difficulty — 

“ I was so young.” 

“The more depraved, the more disgusting you,” Mr. 
Bradshaw exclaimed, almost glad that the woman, unresist- 
ing so long, should now begin to resist. But, to his surprise 
(for in his anger he had forgotten her presence), Jemima 
moved forwards and said “ Father ! ” 

“You hold your tongue, Jemima. You have grown more 
and more insolent — more and more disobedient every day. 
I now know who to thank for it. When such a woman 
came into my family there is no wonder at any corruption — 

any evil — any defilement ” 

“ Father ! ” 

“Not a word ! If, in your disobedience, you choose to 
stay and hear what no modest young woman would put her- 
self in the way of hearing, you shall be silent when I bid you. 
The only good you can gain is in the way of warning. Look 
at that woman ” (indicating Ruth, who moved her drooping 
head a little on one side, as if by such motion she could 
avert the pitiless pointing — her face growing whiter and 
whiter still every instant) — “ Look at that woman, I say — 

334 


Mr. Bradshaw’s Virtuous Indignation 

corrupt long before she was your age — hypocrite for years ! 
If ever you, or any child of mine, cared for her, shake her off 
from you, as St. Paul shook off the viper— even into the fire.” 
He stopped for very want of breath. Jemima, all flushed 
and panting, went up and stood side by side with wan Ruth. 
She took the cold, dead hand which hung next to her in her 
warm convulsive grasp, and, holding it so tight that it was 
blue and discoloured for days, she spoke out beyond all 
power of restraint from her father. 

“ Father ! I will speak. I will not keep silence. I will 
bear witness to Ruth. I have hated her — so keenly, may 
God forgive me ! but you may know, from that, that my 
witness is true. I have hated her, and my hatred was only 
quenched into contempt — not contempt now, dear Ruth — 
dear Ruth ” — (this was spoken with infinite softness and 
tenderness, and in spite of her father’s fierce eyes and 
passionate gesture) — “ I heard what you have learnt now, 
father, weeks and weeks ago — a year it may be, all time of 
late has been so long ; and I shuddered up from her and from 
her sin ; and I might have spoken of it, and told it there and 
then, if I had not been afraid that it was from no good motive 
I should act in so doing, but to gain a way to the desire of my 
own jealous heart. Yes, father, to show you what a witness 
I am for Ruth, I will own that I was stabbed to the heart 
with jealousy ; some one — some one cared for Ruth that — oh 
father ! spare me saying all.” Her face was double-dyed with 
crimson blushes, and she paused for one moment — no more. 

“ I watched her, and I watched her with my wild-beast 
eyes. If I had seen one paltering with duty — if I had 
witnessed one flickering shadow of untruth in word or action 
— if, more than all things, my woman’s instinct had ever been 
conscious of the faintest speck of impurity in thought, or word, 
or look, my old hate would have flamed out with the flame of 
hell ! my contempt would have turned to loathing disgust, 
instead of my being full of pity, and the stirrings of new- 
awakened love, and most true respect. Father, I have 
borne my witness ! ” 


335 


Ruth 

“ And I will tell you how much your witness is worth,” 
said her father, beginning low, that his pent-up wrath might 
have room to swell out. “ It only convinces me more and 
more how deep is the corruption this wanton has spread in 
my family. She has come amongst us with her innocent 
seeming, and spread her nets well and skilfully. She has 
turned right into wrong, and wrong into right, and taught 
you all to be uncertain whether there be any such thing as 
Vice in the world, or whether it ought not to be looked upon 
as Virtue. She has led you to the brink of the deep pit, 
ready for the first chance circumstance to push you in. And 
I trusted — I trusted her — I welcomed her.” 

“ I have done very wrong,” murmured Ruth, but so low, 
that perhaps he did not hear her, for he went on lashing 
himself up. 

“ I welcomed her. I was duped into allowing her bastard 
— (I sicken at the thought of it) ” 

At the mention of Leonard, Ruth lifted up her eyes for 
the first time since the conversation began, the pupils dilating, 
as if she were just becoming aware of some new agony in 
store for her. I have seen such a look of terror on a poor 
dumb animal’s countenance, and once or twice on human 
faces. I pray I may never see it again on either! Jemima 
felt the hand she held in her strong grasp writhe itself free. 
Ruth spread her arms before her, clasping and lacing her 
fingers together, her head thrown a little back, as if in 
intensest suffering. 

Mr. Bradshaw went on — 

“ That very child and heir of shame to associate with my 
own innocent children ! I trust they are not contaminated.” 

“ I cannot bear it — I cannot bear it ! ” were the words 
wrung out of Ruth. 

“ Cannot bear it ! cannot bear it ! ” he repeated. “ You 
must bear it, madam. Do you suppose your child is to be 
exempt from the penalties of his birth? Do you suppose 
that he alone is to be saved from the upbraiding scoff? 
Do you suppose that he is ever to rank with other boys, who 

336 


Mr. Bradshaw’s Virtuous Indignation 

are not stained and marked with sin from their birth? 
Every creature in Eccleston may know what he is ; do you 
think they will spare him then scorn ? ‘ Cannot bear it/ 

indeed! Before you went into your sin, you should have 
thought whether you could bear the consequences or not — 
have had some idea how far your offspring would be degraded 
and scouted, till the best thing that could happen to him 
would be for him to be lost to all sense of shame, dead to all 
knowledge of guilt, for his mother’s sake.” 

Ruth spoke out. She stood like a wild creature at bay, 
past fear now. “ I appeal to God against such a doom for 
my child. I appeal to God to help me. I am a mother, and 
as such I cry to God for help — for help to keep my boy in 
His pitying sight, and to bring him up in His holy fear. Let 
the shame fall on me ! I have deserved it, but he— he is 
so innocent and good.” 

Ruth had caught up her shawl, and was tying on her 
bonnet with her trembling hands. What if Leonard was 
hearing of her shame from common report ? What would 
be the mysterious shock of the intelligence ? She must face 
him, and see the look in his eyes, before she knew whether 
he recoiled from her ; he might have his heart turned to hate 
her, by their cruel jeers. 

Jemima stood by, dumb and pitying. Her sorrow was 
past her power. She helped in arranging the dress, with one 
or two gentle touches, which were hardly felt by Ruth, but 
which called out all Mr. Bradshaw’s ire afresh ; he absolutely 
took her by the shoulders and turned her by force out of the 
room. In the hall, and along the stairs, her passionate woe- 
ful crying was heard. The sound only concentrated Mr. 
Bradshaw’s anger on Ruth. He held the street-door open 
wide, and said, between his teeth, “If ever you, or your 
bastard, darken this door again, I will have you both turned 
out by the police ! ” 

He needed not have added this if he had seen Ruth’s 
face. 


337 


z 


Ruth 


CHAPTER XXVII 

PREPARING TO STAND ON THE TRUTH 

As Ruth went along the accustomed streets, every sight and 
every sound seemed to bear a new meaning, and each and 
all to have some reference to her boy’s disgrace. She held 
her head down, and scudded along dizzy with fear, lest some 
word should have told him what she had been, and what he 
was, before she could reach him. It was a wild, unreasoning 
fear, but it took hold of her as strongly as if it had been well 
founded. And, indeed, the secret whispered by Mrs. Pearson, 
whose curiosity and suspicion had been excited by Jemima’s 
manner, and confirmed since by many a little corroborating 
circumstance, had spread abroad, and was known to most of 
the gossips in Eccleston before it reached Mr. Bradshaw’s 
ears. 

As Ruth came up to the door of the Chapel-house, it was 
opened, and Leonard came out, bright and hopeful as the 
morning, his face radiant at the prospect of the happy day 
before him. He was dressed in the clothes it had been such 
a pleasant pride to her to make for him. He had the dark- 
blue ribbon tied round his neck that she had left out for him 
that very morning, with a smiling thought of how it would 
set off his brown, handsome face. She caught him by the 
hand as they met, and turned him, with his face homewards, 
without a word. Her looks, her rushing movement, her 
silence, awed him ; and although he wondered, he did not 
stay to ask why she did so. The door was on the latch ; 
she opened it, and only said, “ Upstairs,” in a hoarse whisper. 
Up they went into her own room. She drew him in, and 
bolted the door ; and then, sitting down, she placed him (she 
had never let go of him) before her, holding him with her 
hands on each of his shoulders, and gazing into his face with 
a woeful look of the agony that could not find vent in words. 

338 


Preparing to stand on the Truth 

At last she tried to speak : she tried with strong bodily effort, 
almost amounting to convulsion. But the words would not 
come ; it was not till she saw the absolute terror depicted on 
his face that she found utterance ; and then the sight of that 
terror changed the words from what she meant them to have 
been. She drew him to her, and laid her head upon his 
shoulder ; hiding her face even there. 

“ My poor, poor boy ! my poor, poor darling ! Oh ! 
would that I had died — I had died, in my innocent girl- 
hood ! ” 

“ Mother ! mother ! ” sobbed Leonard. “ What is the 
matter ? Why do you look so wild and ill ? Why do you 
call me your ‘ poor boy * ? Are we not going to Scaurside 
Hill ? I don’t much mind it, mother ; only please don’t gasp 
and quiver so. Dearest mother, are you ill ? Let me call 
Aunt Faith ! ” 

Buth lifted herself up, and put away the hair that had 
fallen over and was blinding her eyes. She looked at him 
with intense wistfulness. 

“ Kiss me, Leonard ! ” said she — “ kiss me, my darling, 
once more in the old way ! ” Leonard threw himself into 
her arms and hugged her with all his force, and their lips 
clung together as in the kiss given to the dying. 

“ Leonard ! ” said she at length, holding him away from 
her, and nerving herself up to tell him all by one spasmodic 
effort— “ listen to me.” The boy stood breathless and still, 
gazing at her. On her impetuous transit from Mr. Brad- 
shaw’s to the Chapel-house her wild, desperate thought had 
been that she would call herself by every violent, coarse 
name which the world might give her — that Leonard should 
hear those words applied to his mother first from her own 
lips ; but the influence of his presence — for he was a holy 
and sacred creature in her eyes, and this point remained 
steadfast, though all the rest were upheaved — subdued her ; 
and now it seemed as if she could not find words fine enough, 
and pure enough, to convey the truth that he must learn, and 
should learn from no tongue but hers. 

339 


Ruth 

“ Leonard ! when I was very young I did very wrong. I 
think God, who knows all, will judge me more tenderly than 
men — but I did wrong in a way which you cannot under-' 
stand yet ” (she saw the red flush come into his cheek, and 
it stung her as the first token of that shame which was to b e 
his portion through life) — “ in a way people never forget, 
never forgive. You will hear me called the hardest names 
that ever can be thrown at women — I have been to-day ; 
and, my child, you must bear it patiently, because they will 
be partly true. Never get confused, by your love for me, 
into thinking that what I did was right. — Where was I ? ” 
said she, suddenly faltering, and forgetting all she had said 
and all she had got to say ; and then, seeing Leonard’s face 
of wonder, and burning shame and indignation, she went on 
more rapidly, as fearing lest her strength should fail before 
she had ended. 

“ And, Leonard,” continued she, in a trembling, sad 
voice, “ this is not all. The punishment of punishments lies 
awaiting me still. It is to see you suffer from my wrong- 
doing. Yes, darling! they will speak shameful things of 
you, poor innocent child ! as well as of me, who am guilty. 
They will throw it in your teeth through life, that your 
mother was never married — was not married when you were 
born ” 

“ Were not you married ? Are not you a widow ? ” asked 
he abruptly, for the first time getting anything like a clear 
idea of the real state of the case. 

“ No ! May God forgive me, and help me ! ” exclaimed 
she, as she saw a strange look of repugnance cloud over the 
boy’s face, and felt a slight motion on his part to extricate 
himself from her hold. It was as slight, as transient as it 
could be — over in an instant. But she had taken her hands 
away, and covered up her face with them as quickly — 
covered up her face in shame before he.r child ; and in the 
bitterness of her heart she was wailing out, “ Oh ! would to 
God I had died — that I had died as a baby — that I had died 
as a little baby hanging at my mother’s breast ! ” 

340 


Preparing to stand on the Truth 

“ Mother,” said Leonard, timidly putting his hand on her 
arm; but she shrank from him, and continued her low, 
•passionate wailing. “Mother,” said he, after a pause’ 
coming nearer, though she saw it not— “ mammy darling,” 
said he, using the caressing name, which he had been trying 
to drop as not sufficiently manly, “ mammy, my own, own 
dear, dear darling mother, I don’t believe them ; I don’t, I 
don’t, I don’t, I don’t ! ” He broke out into a wild burst of 
crying as he said this. In a moment her arms were round 
the boy, and she was hushing him up like a baby on her 
bosom. “ Hush, Leonard ! Leonard, be still, my child ! I 

have been too sudden with you ! — I have done you harm 

oh ! I have done you nothing but harm,” cried she, in a tone 
of bitter self-reproach. 

“ No, mother,” said he, stopping his tears, and his eyes 
blazing out with earnestness; “there never was such a 
mother as you have been to me, and I won’t believe any one 
who says it. I won’t ; and I’ll knock them down if they say 
it again, I will ! ” He clenched his fist, with a fierce, defiant 
look on his face. 

“You forget, my child,” said Ruth, in the sweetest, 
saddest tone that ever was heard, “ I said it of myself ; I 
said it because it was true.” Leonard threw his arms tight 
round her and hid his face against her bosom. She felt him 
pant there like some hunted creature. She had no soothing 
comfort to give him. “ Oh, that she and he lay dead ! ” 

At last, exhausted, he lay so still and motionless, that she 
feared to look. She wanted him to speak, yet dreaded his 
first words. She kissed his hair, his head, his very clothes ; 
murmuring low, inarticulate, and moaning sounds. 

“ Leonard,” said she, “ Leonard, look up at me ! Leonard, 
look up!” But he only clung the closer, and hid his face 
the more. 

“ My boy ! ” said she, “ what can I do or say ? If I tell 
you never to mind it — that it is nothing — I tell you false. 
It is a bitter shame and a sorrow that I have drawn down 
upon you. A shame, Leonard, because of me, your mother; 

34i 


Ruth 

but, Leonard, it is no disgrace or lowering of you in the eyes 
of God.” She spoke now as if she had found the clue which 
might lead him to rest and strength at last. “ Remember 
that, always. Remember that, when the time of trial comes 
— and it seems a hard and cruel thing that you should be 
called reproachful names by men, and all for what was no 
fault of yours — remember God’s pity and God’s justice ; and, 
though my sin shall have made you an outcast in the world 
— oh, my child, my child ! ” — (she felt him kiss her, as if 
mutually trying to comfort her — it gave her strength to go 
on) — “ remember, darling of my heart, it is only your own 
sin that can make you an outcast from God.” 

She grew so faint that her hold of him relaxed. He 
looked up affrighted. He brought her water — he threw it 
over her ; in his terror at the notion that she was going to 
die and leave Him, he called her by every fond name, 
imploring her to open her eyes. 

When she partially recovered he helped her to the bed, 
on which she lay still, wan, and death-like. She almost 
hoped the swoon that hung around her might be Death, and 
in that imagination she opened her eyes to take a last look 
at her boy. She saw him pale and terror-stricken ; and pity 
for his affright roused her, and made her forget herself in 
the wish that he should not see her death, if she were indeed 
dying. 

“ Go to Aunt Faith ! ” whispered she ; “I am weary, and 
want sleep.” 

Leonard arose slowly and reluctantly. She tried to smile 
upon him, that what she thought would be her last look 
might dwell in his remembrance as tender and strong ; she 
watched him to the door ; she saw him hesitate, and return 
to her. He came back to her, and said in a timid, appre- 
hensive tone, “ Mother — will they speak to me about it ? ” 

Ruth closed her eyes, that they might not express the 
agony she felt, like a sharp knife, at this question. Leonard 
had asked it with a child’s desire of avoiding painful and 
mysterious topics,— for no personal sense of shame as she 

342 


Preparing to stand on the Truth 

understood it, shame beginning thus early, thus instan- 
taneously. 

“ No,” she replied. “ You may be sure they will not.” 

So he went. But now she would have been thankful for 
the unconsciousness of fainting ; that one little speech bore 
so much meaning to her hot, irritable brain. Mr. and Miss 

Benson, all in their house, would never speak to the boy 

but in his home alone would he be safe from what he had 
already learned to dread. Every form in which shame and 
opprobrium could overwhelm her darling haunted her. She 
had been exercising strong self-control for his sake ever 
since she had met him at the house-door ; there was now a 
reaction. His presence had kept her mind on its perfect 
balance. When that was withdrawn the effect of the strain 
of power was felt. And athwart the fever-mists that arose 
to obscure her judgment, all sorts of will-o’-the-wisp plans 
flittered before her; tempting her to this and that course of 
action — to anything rather than patient endurance — to relieve 
her present state of misery by some sudden spasmodic effort, 
that took the semblance of being wise and right. Gradually 
all her desires, all her longing, settled themselves on one 
point. What had she done — what could she do, to Leonard 
but evil ? If she were away, and gone no one knew where 
— lost in mystery, as if she were dead — perhaps the cruel 
hearts might relent, and show pity on Leonard; while her 
perpetual presence would but call up the remembrance of 
his birth. Thus she reasoned in her hot, dull brain ; and 
shaped her plans in accordance. 

Leonard stole downstairs noiselessly. He listened to find 
some quiet place where he could hide himself. The house 
was very still. Miss Benson thought the purposed expedition 
had taken place, and never dreamed but that Buth and 
Leonard were on distant, sunny Scaurside Hill ; and, after a 
very early dinner, she had set out to drink tea with a farmer’s 
wife, who lived in the country two or three miles off. Mr. 
Benson meant to have gone with her ; but, while they were 
at dinner, he had received an unusually authoritative note 

343 


Ruth 

from Mr. Bradshaw desiring to speak with him, so he went 
to that gentleman’s house instead. Sally was busy in her 
kitchen, making a great noise (not unlike a groom rubbing 
down a horse) over her cleaning. Leonard stole into the 
sitting-room, and crouched behind the large old-fashioned 
sofa to ease his sore, aching heart, by crying with all the 
prodigal waste and abandonment of childhood. 

Mr. Benson was shown into Mr. Bradshaw’s own 
particular room. The latter gentleman was walking up and 
down, and it was easy to perceive that something had 
occurred to chafe him to great anger. 

“ Sit down, sir ! ” said he to Mr. Benson, nodding to a 
chair. 

Mr. Benson sat down. But Mr. Bradshaw continued his 
walk for a few minutes longer without speaking. Then he 
stopped abruptly, right in front of Mr. Benson ; and in a 
voice which he tried to render calm, but which trembled with 
passion — with a face glowing purple as he thought of his 
wrongs (and real wrongs they were), he began — 

“ Mr. Benson, I have sent for you to ask — I am almost 
too indignant at the bare suspicion to speak as becomes me 

— but did you 1 really shall be obliged to beg your 

pardon, if you are as much in the dark as I was yesterday 
as to the character of the woman who lives under your 
roof?” 

There was no answer from Mr. Benson. Mr. Bradshaw 
looked at him very earnestly. His eyes were fixed on the 
ground — he made no inquiry — he uttered no expression of 
wonder or dismay. Mr. Bradshaw ground his foot on the 
floor with gathering rage ; but just as he was about to speak 
Mr. Benson rose up— a poor deformed old man — before the 
stern and portly figure that was swelling and panting with 
passion. 

“ Hear me, sir ! ” (stretching out his hand as if to avert 
the words which were impending). “ Nothing you can say 
can upbraid me like my own conscience ; no degradation 
you can inflict, by word or deed, can come up to the 

344 


Preparing to stand on the Truth 

degradation I have suffered for years, at being a party to a 

deceit, even for a good end ” 

“ For a good end !— Nay ! what next ? ” 

The taunting contempt with which Mr. Bradshaw spoke 
these words almost surprised himself by what he imagined 
must be its successful power of withering ; but in spite of 
it Mr. Benson lifted his grave eyes to Mr. Bradshaw’s 
countenance, and repeated — 

“ For a good end. The end was not, as perhaps you 
consider it to have been, to obtain her admission into your 
family — nor yet to put her in the way of gaining her liveli- 
hood ; my sister and I would willingly have shared what we 
have with her ; it was our intention to do so at first, if not 
for any length of time, at least as long as her health might 
require it. Why I advised (perhaps I only yielded to advice) 
a change of name — an assumption of a false state of widow- 
hood — was because I earnestly desired to place her in 
circumstances in which she might work out her self-redemp- 
tion ; and you, sir, know how terribly the world goes against 
all such as have sinned as Buth did. She was so young, 
too.” 

“ You mistake, sir ; my acquaintance has not lain so much 
among that class of sinners as to give me much experience 
of the way in which they are treated. But, judging from 
what I have seen, I should say they meet with full as much 
leniency as they deserve ; and supposing they do not — I 
know there are plenty of sickly sentimentalists just now 
who reserve all their interest and regard for criminals — why 
not pick out one of these to help you in your task of washing 
the blackamoor white ? Why choose me to be imposed 
upon — my household into which to intrude your protegee ? 
Why were my innocent children to be exposed to corruption ? 

I say,” said Mr. Bradshaw, stamping his foot, “ how dared 
you come into this house, where you were looked upon as a 
minister of religion, with a lie in your mouth ? How dared 
you single me out, of all people, to be gulled, and deceived, 
and pointed at through the town as the person who had 

345 


Ruth 

taken an abandoned woman into his house to teach his 
daughters ? ” 

“ I own my deceit was wrong and faithless.” 

“ Yes ! you can own it, now it is found out ! There is 
small merit in that, I think ! ” 

“ Sir ! I claim no merit. I take shame to myself. I did 
not single you out. You applied to me with your proposal 
that Ruth should be your children’s governess.” 

“ Pah ! ” 

“ And the temptation was too great — no ! I will not say 
that — but the temptation was greater than I could stand — 
it seemed to open out a path of usefulness.” 

“ Now, don’t let me hear you speak so,” said Mr. 
Bradshaw, blazing up. “ I can’t stand it. It is too much 
to talk in that way when the usefulness was to consist in 
contaminating my innocent girls.” 

“ God knows that if I had believed there had been any 
danger of such contamination — God knows how I would 
have died sooner than have allowed her to enter your family. 
Mr. Bradshaw, you believe me, don’t you ? ” asked Mr. 
Benson earnestly. 

“I really must be allowed the privilege of doubting 
what you say in future,” said Mr. Bradshaw, in a cold, 
contemptuous manner. 

“ I have deserved this,” Mr. Benson replied. “ But,” 
continued he, after a moment’s pause, “ I will not speak of 
myself, but of Ruth. Surely, sir, the end I aimed at (the 
means I took to obtain it were wrong ; you cannot feel that 
more than I do) was a right one ; and you will not — you 
cannot say that your children have suffered from associating 
with her. I had her in my family, under the watchful eyes 
of three anxious persons for a year or more ; we saw faults — 
no human being is without them — and poor Ruth’s were but 
slight venial errors ; but we saw no sign of a corrupt mind — no 
glimpse of boldness or forwardness — no token of want of con- 
scientiousness ; she seemed, and was, a young and gentle girl, 
who had been led astray before she fairly knew what life was.” 

346 


Preparing to stand on the Truth 

“ I suppose most depraved women have been innocent 
in their time,” said Mr. Bradshaw, with bitter contempt. 

“ Oh, Mr. Bradshaw ! Ruth was not depraved, and you 
know it. You cannot have seen her — have known her daily, 
all these years, without acknowledging that ! ” Mr. Benson 
was almost breathless, awaiting Mr. Bradshaw’s answer. 
The quiet self-control which he had maintained so long was 
gone now. 

“ I saw her daily — I did not know her. If I had known 
her, I should have known she was fallen and depraved, and 
consequently not fit to come into my house, nor to associate 
with my pure children.” 

“ Now I wish God would give me power to speak out 
convincingly what I believe to be His truth, that not every 
woman who has fallen is depraved ; that many — how many 
the Great Judgment Day will reveal to those who have 
shaken off the poor, sore, penitent hearts on earth — many, 
many crave and hunger after a chance of virtue — the help 
which no man gives to them — help — that gentle, tender 
help which Jesus gave once to Mary Magdalen.” Mr. 
Benson was almost choked by his own feelings. 

“ Come, come, Mr. Benson, let us have no more of this 
morbid way of talking. The world has decided how such 
women are to be treated ; and, you may depend upon it, 
there is so much practical wisdom in the world, that its way 
of acting is right in the long-run, and that no one can fly in 
its face with impunity, unless, indeed, they stoop to deceit 
and imposition.” 

“I take my stand with Christ against the world,” said 
Mr. Benson solemnly, disregarding the covert allusion to 
himself. “ What have the world’s ways ended in ? Can 
we be much worse than we are ? ” 

“ Speak for yourself, if you please.” 

“Is it not time to change some of our ways of thinking 
and acting? I declare before God, that if I believe in any 
one human truth, it is this — that to every woman who, like 
Ruth, has sinned should be given a chance of self-redemption 

347 


Ruth 


—and that such a chance should be given in no supercilious 
or contemptuous manner, but in the spirit of the holy 
Christ.” 

“ Such as getting her into a friend’s house under false 
colours.” 

“ I do not argue on Buth’s case. In that I have acknow- 
ledged my error. I do not argue on any case. I state my 
firm belief, that it is God’s will that we should not dare to 
trample any of His creatures down to the hopeless dust; 
that it is God’s will that the women who have fallen should 
be numbered among those who have broken hearts to be 
bound up, not cast aside as lost beyond recall. If this be 
God’s will, as a thing of God it will stand ; and He will 
open a way.” 

“ I should have attached much more importance to all 
your exhortation on this point if I could have respected 
your conduct in other matters. As it is, when I see a man 
who has deluded himself into considering falsehood right, I 
am disinclined to take his opinion on subjects connected 
with morality; and I can no longer regard him as a fitting 
exponent of the will of God. You perhaps understand 
what I mean, Mr. Benson. I can no longer attend your 
chapel.” 

If Mr. Benson had felt any hope of making Mr. Brad- 
shaw’s obstinate mind receive the truth, that he acknowledged 
and repented of his connivance at the falsehood by means 
of which Buth had been received into the Bradshaw family, 
this last sentence prevented his making the attempt. He 
simply bowed and took his leave — Mr. Bradshaw attending 
him to the door with formal ceremony. 

He felt acutely the severance of the tie which Mr. Brad- 
shaw had just announced to him. He had experienced many 
mortifications in his intercourse with that gentleman, but 
they had fallen off from his meek spirit like drops of water 
from a bird’s plumage ; and now he only remembered the 
acts of substantial kindness rendered (the ostentation all 
forgotten) — many happy hours and pleasant evenings — the 

348 


Preparing to stand on the Truth 

children whom he had loved dearer than he thought till now 
— the young people about whom he had cared, and whom 
he had striven to lead aright. He was but a young man 
when Mr. Bradshaw first came to his chapel; they had 
grown old together ; he had never recognised Mr. Bradshaw 
as an old familiar friend so completely as now when they 
were severed. 

It was with a heavy heart that he opened his own door. 
He went to his study immediately ; he sat down to steady 
himself into his position. 

How long he was there— silent and alone — reviewing his 
life — confessing his sins — he did not know; but he heard 
some unusual sound in the house that disturbed him— roused 
him to present life. A slow, languid step came along the 
passage to the front door — the breathing was broken by 
many sighs. 

Ruth’s hand was on the latch when Mr. Benson came 
out. Her face was very white, except two red spots on each 
cheek — her eyes were deep-sunk and hollow, but glittered 
with feverish lustre. “ Ruth ! ” exclaimed he. She moved 
her lips, but her throat and mouth were too dry for her to 
speak. 

“ Where are you going ? ” asked he ; for she had all her 
walking things on, yet trembled so even as she stood, that it 
was evident she could not walk far without falling. 

She hesitated — she looked up at him, still with the same 
dry glittering eyes. At last she whispered (for she could 
only speak in a whisper), “To Helmsby— I am going to 
Helmsby.” 

“ Helmsby ! my poor girl — may God have mercy upon 
you ! ” for he saw she hardly knew what she was saying. 
“ Where is Helmsby ? ” 

“ I don’t know. In Lincolnshire, I think.” 

“ But why are you going there ? ” 

“Hush! he’s asleep,” said she, as Mr. Benson had 
unconsciously raised his voice. 

“ Who is asleep ? ” asked Mr. Benson. 

349 


Ruth 

“That poor little boy,” said she, beginning to quiver 
and cry. 

“ Come here ! ” said he authoritatively, drawing her into 
the study. 

“ Sit down in that chair. I will come back directly.” 

He went in search of his sister, but she had not returned. 
Then he had recourse to Sally, who was as busy as ever 
about her cleaning. 

“ How long has Ruth been at home ? ” asked he. 

“ Ruth ! She has never been at home sin’ morning. She 
and Leonard were to be off for the day somewhere or other 
with them Bradshaw girls.” 

“ Then she has had no dinner ? ” 

“ Not here, any rate. I can’t answer for what she may 
have done at other places.” 

“ And Leonard — where is he ? ” 

“ How should I know ? With his mother, I suppose. 
Leastways, that was what was fixed on. I’ve enough to do 
of my own, without routing after other folks.” 

She went on scouring in no very good temper. Mr. 
Benson stood silent for a moment. 

“ Sally,” he said, “ I want a cup of tea. Will you make 
it as soon as you can ; and some dry toast too ? I’ll come 
for it in ten minutes.” 

Struck by something in his voice, she looked up at him 
for the first time. 

“ What ha’ ye been doing to yourself, to look so grim 
and grey ? Tiring yourself all to tatters, looking after some 
naught, I’ll be bound ! Well ! well ! I mun make ye your 
tea, I reckon ; but I did hope as you grew older you’d ha’ 
grown wiser.” 

Mr. Benson made no reply, but went to look for Leonard, 
hoping that the child’*s presence might bring back to his 
mother the power of self-control. He opened the parlour- 
door, and looked in, but saw no one. Just as he was shutting 
it, however, he heard a deep, broken, sobbing sigh; and, 
guided by the sound, he found the boy lying on the floor, fast 

350 


Preparing to stand on the Truth 

asleep, but with his features all swollen and disfigured by 
passionate crying. 

“ Poor child ! This was what she meant, then,” thought 
Mr. Benson. “ He has begun his share of the sorrows too,” 
he continued pitifully. “ No ! I will not waken him back to 
consciousness.” So he returned alone into the study. Ruth 
sat where he had placed her, her head bent back, and her 
eyes shut. But when he came in she started up. 

“ I must be going,” she said in a hurried way. 

“ Nay, Ruth, you must not go. You must not leave us. 
We cannot do without you. We love you too much.” 

“ Love me ! ” said she, looking at him wistfully. As she 
looked, her eyes filled slowly with tears. It was a good sign, 
and Mr. Benson took heart to go on. 

“ Yes ! Ruth. You know we do. You may have other 
things to fill up your mind just now, but you know we love 
you ; and nothing can alter our love for you. You ought not 
to have thought of leaving us. You would not, if you had 
been quite well.” 

“Do you know what has happened?” she asked, in a 
low, hoarse voice. 

“ Yes. I know all,” he answered. “ It makes no differ- 
ence to us. Why should it ? ” 

“ Oh ! Mr. Benson, don’t you know that my shame is 
discovered ? ” she replied, bursting into tears — “ and I must 
leave you, and leave Leonard, that you may not share in my 
disgrace.” 

“You must do no such thing. Leave Leonard! You 
have no right to leave Leonard. Where could you go to ? ” 

“ To Helmsby,” she said humbly. “ It would break my 
heart to go, but I thing I ought, for Leonard’s sake. I know 
I ought.” She was crying sadly by this time, but Mr. Benson 
knew the flow of tears would ease her brain. “ It will break 
my heart to go, but I know I must.” 

“ Sit still here at present,” said he, in a decided tone of 
command. He went for the cup of tea. He brought it to 
her without Sally’s being aware for whom it was intended. 

35i 


Ruth 

“ Drink this ! ” He spoke as you would do to a child, if 
desiring it to take medicine. “ Eat some toast.” She took 
the tea, and drank it feverishly ; but when she tried to eat, 
the food seemed to choke her. Still she was docile, and she 
tried. 

“ I cannot,” said she at last, putting down the piece of 
toast. There was a return of something of her usual tone 
in the words. She spoke gently and softly ; no longer in the 
shrill, hoarse voice she had used at first. Mr. Benson sat 
down by her. 

“ Now, Buth, we must talk a little together. I want to 
understand what your plan was. Where is Helmsby ? Why 
did you fix to go there ? ” 

“ It is where my mother lived,” she answered. “ Before 
she was married she lived there ; and wherever she lived, the 
people all loved her dearly ; and I thought — I think, that for 
her sake, some one would give me work. I meant to tell 
them the truth,” said she, dropping her eyes ; “ but still they 
would, perhaps, give me some employment — I don’t care 
what — for her sake. I could do many things,” said she, 
suddenly looking up. “I am sure I could weed — I could in 
gardens — if they did not like to have me in their houses. 
But perhaps some one, for my mother’s sake — oh ! my dear, 
dear mother ! — do you know where and what I am ? ” she 
cried out, sobbing afresh. 

Mr. Benson’s heart was very sore, though he spoke 
authoritatively, and almost sternly — 

“ Buth ! you must be still and quiet. I cannot have this. 
I want you to listen to me. Your thought of Helmsby would 
be a good one, if it was right for you to leave Eccleston ; but 
I do not think it is. I am certain of this, that it would be a 
great sin in you to separate yourself from Leonard. You 
have no right to sever the tie by which God has bound you 
together.” 

“ But if I am here they will all know and remember 
the shame of his birth; and if I go away they may 
forget ” 


35 2 


Preparing to stand on the Truth 

And they may not. And if yon go away, he may be 
unhappy or ill; and you, who above all others have— and 
have from God — remember that , Ruth ! — the power to com- 
fort him, the tender patience to nurse him, have left him to 
the care of strangers. Yes ; I know ! But we ourselves are 
as strangers, dearly as we love him, compared to a mother. 
He may turn to sin, and want the long forbearance, the 
serene authority of a parent : and where are you ? No dread 
of shame, either for yourself, or even for him, can ever make 
it right for you to shake off your responsibility.” All this 
time he was watching her narrowly, and saw her slowly yield 
herself up to the force of what he was saying. 

“ Besides, Ruth,” he continued, “ we have gone on falsely, 
hitherto. It has been my doing, my mistake, my sin. I 
ought to have known better. Now, let us stand firm on the 
truth. You have no new fault to repent of. Be brave and 
faithful. It is to God you answer, not to men. The shame of 
having your sin known to the world, should be as nothing to 
the shame you felt at having sinned. We have dreaded men 
too much, and God too little, in the course we have taken. 
But now be of good cheer. Perhaps you will have to find 
your work in the world very low — not quite working in the 
fields,” said he, with a gentle smile, to which she, downcast 
and miserable, could give no response. “Nay, perhaps, 
Ruth,” he went on, “ you may have to stand and wait for 
some time ; no one may be willing to use the services you 
would gladly render ; all may turn aside from you, and may 
speak very harshly of you. Can you accept all this treat- 
ment meekly, as but the reasonable and just penance God 
has laid upon you — feeling no anger against those who 
slight you, no impatience for the time to come (and come 
it surely will — I speak as having the word of God for 
what I say), when He, having purified you, even as by fire, 
will make a straight path for your feet ? My child, it is 
Christ the Lord who has told us of this infinite mercy of 
God. Have you faith enough in it to be brave, and bear on, 
and do rightly in patience and in tribulation ? ” 

353 


2 A 


Ruth 

Ruth had been hushed and very still until now, when the 
pleading earnestness of his question urged her to answer. 

“ Yes ! ” said she. “ I hope — I believe I can be faithful 
for myself, for I have sinned and done wrong. But 
Leonard ” She looked up at him. 

“ But Leonard,” he echoed. “ Ah ! there it is hard, Ruth. 
I own the world is hard and persecuting to such as he.” 
He paused to think of the true comfort for this sting. He 
went on. “ The world is not everything, Ruth ; nor is the 
want of men’s good opinion and esteem the highest need 
which man has. Teach Leonard this. You would not wish 
his life to be one summer’s day. You dared not make it so, 
if you had the power. Teach him to bid a noble, Christian 
welcome to the trials which God sends — and this is one of 
them. Teach him not to look on a life of struggle, and 
perhaps of disappointment and incompleteness, as a sad and 
mournful end, but as the means permitted to the heroes 
and warriors in the army of Christ, by which to show their 
faithful following. Tell him of the hard and thorny path 
which was trodden once by the bleeding feet of One — Ruth ! 
think of the Saviour’s life and cruel death, and of His divine 
faithfulness. Oh, Ruth ! ” exclaimed he, “ when I look and 
see what you may be — what you must be to that boy, I can- 
not think how you could be coward enough, for a moment, 
to shrink from your work! But we have all been cowards 
hitherto,” he added, in bitter self -accusation. “ God help us 
to be so no longer ! ” 

Ruth sat very quiet. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, 
and she seemed lost in thought. At length she rose up. 

“ Mr. Benson ! ” said she, standing before him, and 
propping herself by the table, as she was trembling sadly 
from weakness, “ I mean to try very, very hard, to do my 
duty to Leonard — and to God,” she added reverently. “ I 
am only afraid my faith may sometimes fail about 
Leonard ” 

“ Ask, and it shall be given unto you. That is no vain 
or untried promise, Ruth ! ” 


354 


Preparing to stand on the Truth 

She sat down again, unable longer to stand. There was 
another long silence. 

“ I must never go to Mr. Bradshaw’s again,” she said at 
last, as if thinking aloucl 

“ No, Ruth, you shall not,” he answered. 

“ But I shall earn no money ! ” added she quickly, for 
she thought that he did not perceive the difficulty that was 
troubling her. 

“You surely know, Ruth, that, while Faith and I have a 
roof to shelter us, or bread to eat, you and Leonard share it 
with us.” 

“ I know — I know your most tender goodness,” said she, 
“ but it ought not to be.” 

“ It must be at present,” he said, in a decided manner. 
“Perhaps, before long you may have some employment; 
perhaps it may be some time before an opportunity occurs.” 

“ Hush,” said Ruth ; “ Leonard is moving about in the 
parlour. I must go to him.” 

But when she stood up, she turned so dizzy, and tottered 
so much, that she was glad to sit down again immediately. 

“You must rest here. I will go to him,” said Mr. 
Benson. He left her ; and when he was gone, she leaned 
her head on the back of the chair, and cried quietly and 
incessantly ; but there was a more patient, hopeful, resolved 
feeling in the heart, which all along, through all the tears 
she shed, bore her onwards to higher thoughts, until at last 
she rose to prayers. 

Mr. Benson caught the new look of shrinking shame in 
Leonard’s eye, as it first sought, then shunned, meeting his. 
He was pained, too, by the sight of the little sorrowful, 
anxious face, on which, until now, hope and joy had been 
predominant. The constrained voice, the few words the boy 
spoke, when formerly there would have been a glad and free 
utterance — all this grieved Mr. Benson inexpressibly, as but 
the beginning of an unwonted mortification, which must last 
for years. He himself made no allusion to any unusual 
occurrence; he spoke of Ruth as sitting, overcome by 

355 


Ruth 

headache, in the study for quietness : he hurried on the pre- 
parations for tea, while Leonard sat by in the great arm- 
chair, and looked on with sad, dreamy eyes. He strove to 
lessen the shock which he knew Leonard had received, by 
every mixture of tenderness and cheerfulness that Mr. 
Benson’s gentle heart prompted; and now and then a 
languid smile stole over the boy’s face. When his bedtime 
came, Mr. Benson told him of the hour, although he feared 
that Leonard would have but another sorrowful crying of 
himself to sleep ; but he was anxious to accustom the boy to 
cheerful movement within the limits of domestic law, and by 
no disobedience to it to weaken the power of glad submission 
to the Supreme ; to begin the new life that lay before him, 
where strength to look up to God as the Law- giver and Ruler 
of events would be pre-eminently required. When Leonard 
had gone upstairs, Mr. Benson went immediately to Ruth, 
and said — 

“Ruth! Leonard is just gone up to bed,” secure in the 
instinct which made her silently rise, and go up to the boy — 
certain, too, that they would each be the other’s best com- 
forter, and that God would strengthen each through the 
other. 

Now, for the first time, he had leisure to think of himself ; 
and to go over all the events of the day. The half-hour of 
solitude in his study, that he had before his sister’s return, 
was of inestimable value ; he had leisure to put events in 
their true places, as to importance and eternal significance. 

Miss Faith came in laden with farm produce. Her kind 
entertainers had brought her in their shandry to the open- 
ing of the court in which the Chapel-house stood ; but she 
was so heavily burdened with eggs, mushrooms, and plums, 
that, when her brother opened the door, she was almost 
breathless. 

“ Oh, Thurstan ! take this basket — it is such a weight ? 
Oh, Sally, is that you? Here are some magnum-bonums 
which we must preserve to-morrow. There are guinea-fowl 
eggs in that basket.” 


35 ^ 


Preparing to stand on the Truth 

Mr. Benson let her unburden her body, and her mind too, 
by giving charges to Sally respecting her housekeeping 
treasures, before he said a word ; but when she returned 
into the study, to tell him the small pieces of intelligence 
respecting her day at the farm, she stood aghast. 

“Why, Thurstan, dear! What’s the matter? Is your 
back hurting you ? ” 

He smiled to reassure her ; but it was a sickly and forced 
smile. 

“No, Faith ! I am quite well, only rather out of spirits, 
and wanting to talk to you to cheer me.” 

Miss Faith sat down, straight, sitting bolt-upright to 
listen the better. 

“I don’t know how, but the real story about Ruth is 
found out.” 

“ Oh, Thurstan ! ” exclaimed Miss Benson, turning quite 
white. 

For a moment, neither of them said another word. Then 
she went on — 

“ Does Mr. Bradshaw know ? ” 

“ Yes ! He sent for me, and told me.” 

“ Does Ruth know that it has all come out ? ” 

“ Yes. And Leonard knows.” 

“ How ? Who told him ? ” 

“ I do not know. I have asked no questions. But of 
course it was his mother.” 

“ She was very foolish and cruel, then,” said Miss 
Benson, her eyes blazing, and her lips trembling, at the 
thought of the suffering her darling boy must have gone 
through. 

“ I think she was wise. I am sure it was not cruel. He 
must have soon known that there was some mystery, and it 
was better that it should be told him openly and quietly by 
his mother than by a stranger.” 

“ How could she tell him quietly ? ” asked Miss Benson, 
still indignant. 

“ Well ! perhaps I used the wrong word — of course no 
357 


Ruth 

one was by — and I don’t suppose even they themselves could 
now tell how it was told, or in what spirit it was borne.” 

Miss Benson was silent again. 

“Was Mr. Bradshaw very angry? ” 

“ Yes, very ; and justly so. I did very wrong in making 
that false statement at first.” 

“ No ! I am sure you did not,” said Miss Faith. “ Buth 
has had some years of peace, in which to grow stronger and 
wiser, so that she can bear her shame now in a way she 
never could have done at first.” 

“ All the same it was wrong in me to do what I did*” 

“ I did it too, as much or more than you. And I don’t 
think it wrong. I’m certain it was quite right, and I would 
do just the same again.” 

“ Perhaps it has not done you the harm it has done me.” 

“ Nonsense ! Thurstan. Don’t be morbid. I’m sure you 
are as good — and better than ever you were.” 

“ No, I am not. I have got what you call morbid, just in 
consequence of the sophistry by which I persuaded myself 
that wrong could be right. I torment myself. I have lost 
my clear instincts of conscience. Formerly, if I believed that 
such or such an action was according to the will of God, I 
went and did it, or at least I tried to do it, without thinking 
of consequences. Now, I reason and weigh what will 
happen if I do so and so — I grope where formerly I saw. 
Oh, Faith ! it is such a relief to me to have the truth known, 
that I am afraid I have not been sufficiently sympathising 
with Ruth.” 

“ Poor Buth ! ” said Miss Benson. “ But at any rate our 
telling a lie has been the saving of her. There is no fear of 
her going wrong now.” 

“ God’s omnipotence did not need our sin.” 

They did not speak for some time. 

“ You have not told me what Mr. Bradshaw said.” 

“ One can’t remember the exact words that are spoken 
on either side in moments of such strong excitement. He 
was very angry, and said some things about me that were 

358 


Preparing to stand on the Truth 

very just, and some about Ruth that were very hard. His 
last words were that he should give up coming to chapel.” 

“ Oh, Thurstan ! did it come to that ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Does Ruth know all he said ? ” 

“ No ! Why should she ? I don’t know if she knows he 
has spoken to me at all. Poor creature ! she had enough 
to craze her almost without that ! She was for going away 
and leaving us, that we might not share in her disgrace. I 
was afraid of her being quite delirious. I did so want you, 
Faith ! However, I did the best I could ; I spoke to her very 
coldly, and almost sternly, all the while my heart was bleed- 
ing for her. I dared not give her sympathy ; I tried to give 
her strength. But I did so want you, Faith.” 

“ And I was so full of enjoyment, I am ashamed to think 
of it. But the Dawsons are so kind — and the day was so 
fine Where is Ruth now ? ” 

“ With Leonard. He is her great earthly motive — I 
thought that being with him would be best. But he must be 
in bed and asleep now.” 

“ I will go up to her,” said Miss Faith. 

She found Ruth keeping watch by Leonard’s troubled sleep ; 
but when she saw Miss Faith she rose up, and threw herself 
on her neck and clung to her, without speaking. After a 
while Miss Benson said — 

“ You must go to bed, Ruth ! ” So, after she had kissed 
the sleeping boy, Miss Benson led her away, and helped to 
undress her, and brought her up a cup of soothing violet- 
tea— not so soothing as tender actions and soft, loving 
tones. 


359 


Ruth 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

AN UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN LOVERS 

It was well they had so early and so truly strengthened the 
spirit to bear, for the events which had to be endured soon 
came thick and threefold. 

Every evening Mr. and Miss Benson thought the worst 
must be over ; and every day brought some fresh occurrence 
to touch upon the raw place. They could not be certain, 
until they had seen all their acquaintances, what difference 
it would make in the cordiality of their reception : in some 
cases it made much ; and Miss Benson was proportionably 
indignant. She felt this change in behaviour more than her 
brother. His great pain arose from the coolness of the 
Bradshaws. With all the faults which had at times grated 
on his sensitive nature (but which he now forgot, and remem- 
bered only their kindness), they were his old familiar friends 
— his kind, if ostentatious, patrons — his great personal 
interest, out of his own family ; and he could not get over 
the suffering he experienced from seeing their large square 
pew empty on Sundays — from perceiving how Mr. Bradshaw, 
though he bowed in a distant manner when he and Mr. 
Benson met face to face, shunned him as often as he possibly 
could. All that happened in the household, which once was 
as patent to him as his own, was now a sealed book ; he 
heard of its doings by chance, if he heard at all. Just at the 
time when he was feeling the most depressed from this 
cause, he met Jemima at a sudden turn of the street. He 
\yas uncertain for a moment how to accost her, but she 
saved him all doubt ; in an instant she had his hand in both 
of hers, her face flushed with honest delight. 

“ Oh, Mr. Benson, I am so glad to see you ! I have so 
wanted to know all about you. How is poor Ruth ? dear 
Ruth ! I wonder if she has forgiven me my cruelty to her ? 

36° 


An Understanding between Lovers 

And I may not go to her now, when I should be so glad and 
thankful to make up for it.” 

“ I never heard you had been cruel to her. I am sure 
she does not think so.” 

“ She ought ; she must. What is she doing ? Oh ! I 
have so much to ask, I can never hear enough ; and papa 
says ” — she hesitated a moment, afraid of giving pain, and 
then, believing that they would understand the state of 
affairs, and the reason for her behaviour better if she told the 
truth, she went on — “ Papa says I must not go to your house 
— I suppose it’s right to obey him ? ” 

“ Certainly, my dear. It is your clear duty. We know 
how you feel towards us.” 

“ Oh ! but if I could do any good — if I could be of any 
use or comfort to any of you — especially to Ruth, I should 
come, duty or not. I believe it would be my duty,” said she, 
hurrying on to try and stop any decided prohibition from Mr. 
Benson. “ No ! don’t be afraid ; I won’t come till I know I 
can do some good. I hear bits about you through Sally 
every now and then, or I could not have waited so long. 
Mr. Benson,” continued she, reddening very much, “ I think 
you did quite right about poor Ruth.” 

“Not in the falsehood, my dear.’ 

“ No ! not perhaps in that. I was not thinking of that. 

But I have been thinking a great deal about poor Ruth’s 

you know I could not help it when everybody was talking 
about it — and it made me think of myself, and what I am. 
With a father and mother, and home and careful friends, I 
am not likely to be tempted like Ruth ; but oh ! Mr. Benson,” 
said she, lifting her eyes, which were full of tears, to his face, 
for the first time since she began to speak, “ if you knew all 
I have been thinking and feeling this last year, you would 
see how I have yielded to every temptation that was able to 
come to me ; and, seeing how I have no goodness or strength 
in me, and how I might just have been like Ruth, or rather 
worse than she ever was, because I am more headstrong and 
passionate by nature, I do so thank you and love you for 

361 


Ruth 

what you did for her ! And will you tell me really and truly 
now if I can ever do anything for Ruth ? If you’ll promise 
me that, I won’t rebel unnecessarily against papa; but if 
you don’t, I will, and come and see you all this very after- 
noon. Remember ! I trust you ! ” said she, breaking 
away. Then turning back, she came to ask after Leonard. 

“ He must know something of it,” said she. “ Does he 
feel it much ? ” 

“Very much,” said Mr. Benson. Jemima shook her head 
sadly. 

“ It is hard upon him,” said she. 

“It is,” Mr. Benson replied. 

For in truth, Leonard was their greatest anxiety indoors. 
His health seemed shaken, he spoke half sentences in his 
sleep, which showed that in his dreams he was battling on 
his mother’s behalf against an unkind and angry world. 
And then he would wail to himself, and utter sad words of 
shame, which they never thought had reached his ears. By 
day, he was in general grave and quiet ; but his appetite 
varied, and he was evidently afraid of going into the streets, 
dreading to be pointed at as an object of remark. Each 
separately in their hearts longed to give him change of scene ; 
but they were all silent, for where was the requisite money to 
come from ? 

His temper became fitful and variable. At times he 
would be most sullen against his mother ; and then give way 
to a passionate remorse. When Mr. Benson caught Ruth’s 
look of agony at her child’s rebuffs, his patience failed ; or 
rather, I should say, he believed that a stronger, severer hand 
than hers was required for the management of the lad. 
But, when she heard Mr. Benson say so, she pleaded with 
him. 

“ Have patience with Leonard,” she said. “ I have 
deserved the anger that is fretting in his heart. It is only I 
who can reinstate myself in his love and respect. I have no 
fear. When he sees me really striving hard and long to do 
what is right, he must love me. I am not afraid.” 

362 


An Understanding between Lovers 

Even while she spoke, her lips quivered, and her colour 
went and came with eager anxiety. So Mr. Benson held his 
peace, and let her take her course. It was beautiful to see 
the intuition by which she divined what was passing in 
every fold of her child’s heart, so as to be always ready with 
the right words to soothe or to strengthen him. Her watchful- 
ness was unwearied, and with no thought of self-tainting in 
it, or else she might have often paused to turn aside and 
weep at the clouds of shame which came over Leonard’s love 
for her, and hid it from all but her faithful heart ; she believed 
and knew that he was yet her own affectionate boy, although 
he might be gloomily silent, or apparently hard and cold. 
And in all this, Mr. Benson could not choose but admire the 
way in which she was insensibly teaching Leonard to conform 
to the law of right, to recognise duty in the mode in which 
every action was performed. When Mr. Benson saw this, 
he knew that all goodness would follow, and that the claims 
which his mother’s infinite love had on the boy’s heart would 
be acknowledged at last, and all the more fully because she 
herself never urged them, but silently admitted the force of 
the reason that caused them to be for a time forgotten. By- 
and-by Leonard’s remorse at his ungracious and sullen ways 
to his mother — ways that alternated with passionate, fitful 
bursts of clinging love — assumed more the character of 
repentance, he tried to do so no more. But still his health 
was delicate ; he was averse to going out-of-doors ; he was 
much graver and sadder than became his age. It was what 
must be : an inevitable consequence of what had been ; and 
Ruth had to be patient, and pray in secret, and with many 
tears, for the strength she needed. 

She knew what it was to dread the going out into the 
streets after her story had become known. For days and 
days she had silently shrunk from this effort. But, one 
evening towards dusk, Miss Benson was busy, and asked 
her to go an errand for her ; and Ruth got up and silently 
obeyed her. That silence as to inward suffering was only 
one part of her peculiar and exquisite sweetness of nature; 

363 


Ruth 

part of the patience with which she “ accepted her penance.” 
Her true instincts told her that it was not right to disturb 
others with many expressions of her remorse ; that the 
holiest repentance consisted in a quiet and daily sacrifice. 
Still there were times when she wearied pitifully of her 
inaction. She was so willing to serve and work, and every 
one despised her services. Her mind, as I have said before, 
had been well cultiyated during these last few years ; so 
now she used all the knowledge she had gained in teaching 
Leonard, which was an employment that Mr. Benson re- 
linquished willingly, because he felt that it would give her 
some of the occupation that she needed. She endeavoured 
to make herself useful in the house in every way she could ; 
but the waters of house-keeping had closed over her place 
during the time of her absence at Mr. Bradshaw’s — and, 
besides, now that they were trying to restrict every un- 
necessary expense, it was sometimes difficult to find work 
for three women. Many and many a time Ruth turned 
over in her mind every possible chance of obtaining employ- 
ment for her leisure hours, and nowhere could she find it. 
Now and then Sally, who was her confidante in this wish, 
procured her some needlework, but it was of a coarse and 
common kind, soon done, lightly paid for. But, whatever it 
was, Ruth took it, and was thankful, although it added but 
a few pence to the household purse. I do not mean that 
there was any great need of money ; but a new adjustment 
of expenditure was required — a reduction of wants w T hich 
had never been very extravagant. 

Ruth’s salary of forty pounds was gone, while more of 
her “ keep,” as Sally called it, was thrown upon the Bensons. 
Mr. Benson received about eighty pounds a year for his 
salary as minister. Of this, he knew that twenty pounds 
came from Mr. Bradshaw ; and, when the old man appointed 
to collect the pew-rents brought him the quarterly amount, 
and he found no diminution in them, he inquired how it 
was, and learnt that, although Mr. Bradshaw had expressed 
to the collector his determination never to come to chapel 

3 6 4 


An Understanding between Lovers 

again, he had added, that of course his pew-rent should be 
paid all the same. But this Mr. Benson could not suffer ; 
and the old man was commissioned to return the money to 
Mr. Bradshaw, as being what his deserted minister could 
not receive. 

Mr. and Miss Benson had about thirty or forty pounds 
coming in annually from a sum which, in happier days, Mr. 
Bradshaw had invested in Canal shares for them. Alto- 
gether their income did not fall much short of a hundred a 
year, and they lived in the Chapel-house free of rent. So 
Buth’s small earnings were but very little in actual hard 
commercial account, though in another sense they were 
much; and Miss Benson always received them with quiet 
simplicity. By degrees, Mr. Benson absorbed some of 
Buth’s time in a gracious and natural way. He employed 
her mind in all the kind offices he was accustomed to render 
to the poor around him. And as much of the peace and 
ornament of life as they gained now was gained on a firm 
basis of truth. If Buth began low down to find her place in 
the world, at any rate there was no flaw in the foundation. 

Leonard was still their great anxiety. At times the 
question seemed to be, could he live through all this trial 
of the elasticity of childhood? And then they knew how 
precious a blessing — how true a pillar of fire, he was to his 
mother; and how black the night, and how dreary the 
wilderness would be, when he was not. The child and the 
mother were each messengers of God — angels to each 
other. 

They had long gaps between the pieces of intelligence 
respecting the Bradshaws. Mr. Bradshaw had at length 
purchased the house at Abermouth, and they were much 
there. The way in which the Bensons heard most frequently 
of the family of their former friends, was through Mr. 
Farquhar. He called on Mr. Benson about a month after 
the latter had met Jemima in the street. Mr. Farquhar was 
not in the habit of paying calls on any one ; and, though he 
had always entertained and evinced the most kind and 

36s 


Ruth 

friendly feeling towards Mr. Benson, he had rarely been in 
the Chapel-house. Mr.. Benson received him courteously, 
but he rather expected that there would be some especial 
reason alleged, before the conclusion of the visit, for its 
occurrence; more particularly as Mr. Farquhar sat talking 
on the topics of the day in a somewhat absent manner, as if 
they were not the subjects most present to his mind. The 
truth was, he could not help recurring to the last time when 
he was in that room, waiting to take Leonard a ride, and his 
heart beating rather more quickly than usual at the idea 
that Ruth might bring the boy in when he was equipped. 
He was very full now of the remembrance of Ruth ; and yet 
he was also most thankful, most self-gratulatory, that he 
had gone no further in his admiration of her — that he had 
never expressed his regard in words— that no one, as he 
believed, was cognisant of the incipient love which had 
grown partly out oFhis admiration, and partly out of his 
reason. He was thankful to be spared any implication in 
the nine-days’ wonder which her story had made in Eccleston. 
And yet his feeling for her had been of so strong a character, 
that he winced, as with extreme pain, at every application 
of censure to her name. These censures were often ex- 
aggerated, it is true ; but, when they were just in their 
judgment of the outward circumstances of the case, they 
were not the less painful and distressing to him. His first 
rebound to Jemima was occasioned by Mrs. Bradshaw’s 
account of how severely her husband was displeased at her 
daughter’s having taken part with Ruth ; and he could have 
thanked and almost blessed Jemima when she dropped in 
(she dared do no more) her pleading excuses and charitable 
explanations on Ruth’s behalf. Jemima had learnt some 
humility from the discovery which had been to her so great 
a shock ; standing, she had learnt to take heed lest she fell ; 
and, when she had once been aroused to a perception of the 
violence of the hatred which she had indulged against Ruth, 
she was more reticent and measured in the expression of all 
her opinions. It showed how much her character had been 

366 


An Understanding between Lovers 

purified from pride, that now she felt aware that what in 
her was again attracting Mr. Farquhar was her faithful 
advocacy of her rival, wherever such advocacy was wise or 
practicable. He was quite unaware that Jemima had been 
conscious of his great admiration for Ruth ; he did not know 
that she had ever cared enough for him to be jealous. But 
the unacknowledged bond between them now was their grief, 
and sympathy, and pity for Ruth; only in Jemima these 
feelings were ardent, and would fain have become active; 
while in Mr. Farquhar they were strongly mingled with 
thankfulness that he had escaped a disagreeable position, 
and a painful notoriety. His natural caution induced him 
to make a resolution never to think of any woman as a wife 
until he had ascertained all her antecedents, from her birth 
upwards ; and the same spirit of caution, directed inwardly, 
made him afraid of giving too much pity to Ruth, for fear 
of the conclusions to which such a feeling might lead him. 
But still his old regard for her, for Leonard, and his esteem 
and respect for the Bensons, induced him to lend a willing 
ear to Jemima’s earnest entreaty that he would go and call 
on Mr. Benson, in order that she might learn something 
about the family in general, and Ruth in particular. It was 
thus that he came to sit by Mr. Benson’s study fire, and to 
talk, in an absent way, to that gentleman. How they got on 
the subject he did not know, more than one-half of his 
attention being distracted; but they were speaking about 
politics, when Mr. Farquhar learned that Mr. Benson took 
in no newspaper. 

“Will you allow me to send you over my Times ? I 
have generally done with it before twelve o’clock, and after 
that it is really waste-paper in my house. You will oblige 
me by making use of it.” 

“ I am sure I am very much obliged to you for thinking 
of it. But do not trouble yourself to send it ; Leonard can 
fetch it.” 

“How is Leonard now?” asked Mr. Farquhar, and he 
tried to speak indifferently ; but a grave look of intelligence 

3 6 7 


Ruth 

clouded his eyes as he looked for Mr. Benson’s answer. “ I 
have not met him lately.” 

“ No ! ” said Mr. Benson, with an expression of pain in 
his countenance, though he, too, strove to speak in his usual 
tone. 

“ Leonard is not strong, and we find it difficult to induce 
him to go much out-of-doors.” 

There was a little silence for a minute or two, during 
which Mr. Farquhar had to check an unbidden sigh. But, 
suddenly rousing himself into a determination to change the 
subject, he said — 

“ You will find rather a lengthened account of the 
exposure of Sir Thomas Campbell’s conduct at Baden. He 
seems to be a complete blackleg, in spite of his baronetcy. 
I fancy the papers are glad to get hold of anything just 
now.” 

“ Who is Sir Thomas Campbell ? ” asked Mr. Benson. 

“ Oh, I thought you might have heard the report — a true 
one, I believe — of Mr. Donne’s engagement to his daughter. 
He must be glad she jilted him now, I fancy, after this 
public exposure of her father’s conduct.” (That was an 
awkward speech, as Mr. Farquhar felt ; and he hastened 
to cover it, by going on without much connection :) 

“ Dick Bradshaw is my informant about all these pro- 
jected marriages in high life — they are not much in my 
way; but, since he has come down from London to take 
his share in the business, I think I have heard more of the 
news and the scandal of what, I suppose, would be con- 
sidered high life, than ever I did before ; and Mr. Donne’s 
proceedings seem to be an especial object of interest to 
him.” 

“ And Mr. Donne is engaged to a Miss Campbell, is he ? ” 

“Was engaged ; if I understood right, she broke off the 
engagement to marry some Russian prince or other — a 
better match, Dick Bradshaw told me. I assure you,” 
continued Mr. Farquhar, smiling, “I am a very passive 
recipient of all such intelligence, and might very probably 

368 


An Understanding between Lovers 

have forgotten all about it, if the Times of this morning had 
not been so full of the disgrace of the young lady’s 
father.” 

“ Eichard Bradshaw has quite left London, has he ? ” 
asked Mr. Benson, who felt far more interest in his old 
patron s family than in all the Campbells that ever were or 
ever would be. 

“Yes. He has come to settle down here. I hope he 
may do well, and not disappoint his father, who has formed 
very high expectations from him ; I am not sure if they are 
not too high for any young man to realise.” Mr. Farquhar 
could have said more; but Dick Bradshaw was Jemima’s 
brother, and an object of anxiety to her. 

“Iam sure, I trust such a mortification — such a grief as 
any disappointment in Eichard, may not befall his father,” 
replied Mr. Benson. 

“Jemima — Miss Bradshaw,” said Mr. Farquhar, hesi- 
tating, “ was most anxious to hear of you all. I hope 1 
may tell her you are all well ” (with an emphasis on all) ; 
“ that ” 

“ Thank you. Thank her for us. We are all well ; all 
except Leonard, who is not strong, as I said before. But 
we must be patient. Time, and such devoted, tender love 
as he has from his mother, must do much.” 

Mr. Farquhar was silent. 

“ Send him to my house for the papers. It will be a 
little necessity for him to have some regular exercise, and 
to face the world. He must do it, sooner or later.” 

The two gentlemen shook hands with each other warmly 
on parting ; but no further allusion was made to either Euth 
or Leonard. 

So Leonard went for the papers. Stealing along by 
back streets — running with his head bent down — his little 
heart panting with dread of being pointed out as his mother’s 
child — so he used to come back, and run trembling to Sally, 
who would hush him up to her breast with many a rough- 
spoken word of pity and sympathy. 

369 


2 B 


Ruth 

Mr. Farquhar tried to catch him to speak to him, and 
tame him, as it were; and, by-and-by, he contrived to 
interest him sufficiently to induce the boy to stay a little 
while in the house or stables, or garden. But the race 
through the streets was always to be dreaded as the end of 
ever so pleasant a visit. 

Mr. Farquhar kept up the intercourse with the Bensons 
which he had thus begun. He persevered in paying 
calls — quiet visits, where not much was said, political or 
local news talked about, and the same inquiries always 
made and answered as to the welfare of the two families, 
who were estranged from each other. Mr. Farquhar’ s 
reports were so little varied that Jemima grew anxious to 
know more particulars. 

“ Oh, Mr. Farquhar ! ” said she ; “do you think they 
tell you the truth ? I wonder what Ruth can be doing to 
support herself and Leonard? Nothing that you can hear 
of, you say ; and, of course, one must not ask the downright 
question. And yet I am sure they must be pinched in some 
way. Do you think Leonard is stronger ? ” 

“I am not sure. He is growing fast ; and such a blow 
as he has had will be certain to make him more thoughtful 
and full of care than most boys of his age; both these 
circumstances may make him thin and pale, which he 
certainly is.” 

“ Oh ! how I wish I might go and see them all ! I could 
tell in a twinkling the real state of things.” She spoke with 
a tinge of her old impatience. 

“I will go again, and pay particular attention to any- 
thing you wish me to observe. You see, of course, I feel a 
delicacy about asking any direct questions, or even alluding 
in any way to these late occurrences.” 

“ And you never see Ruth by any chance ? ” 

“ Never ! ” 

They did not look at each other while this last question 
was asked and answered. 

“ I will take the paper to-morrow myself ; it will be 
37o 


an 


An Understanding between Lovers 

excuse for calling again, and I will try to be very pene- 
trating ; but I have not much hope of success. 

“Oh, thank you. It is giving you a great deal of trouble ; 
but you are very kind.” 

“ Kind, Jemima ! ” he repeated, in a tone which made 
her go very red and hot; “must I tell you how you can 
reward me? — Will you call me Walter? — say, thank you, 
Walter — just for once.” 

Jemima felt herself yielding to the voice and tone in 
which this was spoken ; but her very consciousness of the 
depth of her love made her afraid of giving way, and anxious 
to be wooed, that she might be reinstated in her self-esteem. 

“ No ! ” said she, “ I don’t think I can call you so. You 
are too old. It would not be respectful.” She meant it 
half in joke, and had no idea he would take the allusion to 
his age so seriously as he did. He rose up, and coldly, as 
a matter of form, in a changed voice, wished her “ Good-bye.” 
Her heart sank ; yet the old pride was there. But as he 
was at the very door, some sudden impulse made her 
speak — 

“ I have not vexed you, have I, Walter ? ” 

He turned round, glowing with a thrill of delight. She 
was as red as any rose; her looks dropped down to the 
ground. 

They were not raised, when, half-an-hour afterwards, 
she said, “You won’t forbid my going to see Ruth, will 
you ? because if you do, I give you notice I shall disobey 
you.” The arm around her waist clasped her yet more 
fondly at the idea, suggested by this speech, of the control 
which he should have a right to exercise over her actions at 
some future day. 

“ Tell me,” said he, “ how much of your goodness to me, 
this last happy hour, has been owing to the desire of having 
more freedom as a wife than as a daughter? ” 

She was almost glad that he should think she needed 
any additional motive to her love for him before she could 
have accepted him. She was afraid, that $he had betrayed 

3/t 


Ruth 

the deep, passionate regard with which she had long looked 
upon him. She was lost in delight at her own happiness. 
She was silent for a time. At length she said — 

“ I don’t think you know how faithful I have been to 
you ever since the days when you first brought me pistachio- 
candy from London — when I was quite a little girl.” 

“Not more faithful than I have been to you,” for in 
truth, the recollection of his love for Ruth had utterly faded 
away, and he thought himself a model of constancy; “and 
you have tried me pretty well. What a vixen you have 
been ! ” 

Jemima sighed; smitten with the consciousness of how 
little she had deserved her present happiness ; humble with 
the recollection of the evil thoughts that had raged in her 
heart during the time (which she remembered well, though 
he may have forgotten it) when Ruth had had the affection 
which her jealous rival coveted. 

“ I may speak to your father ; may not I, Jemima ? ” 

No ! for some reason or fancy which she could not 
define, and could not be persuaded out of, she wished to 
keep their mutual understanding a secret. She had a 
natural desire to avoid the congratulations she expected from 
her family. She dreaded her father’s consideration of the 
whole affair as a satisfactory disposal of his daughter to a 
worthy man, who, being his partner, would not require any 
abstraction of capital from the concern, and Richard’s more 
noisy delight at his sister’s having “hooked” so good a 
match. It was only her simple-hearted mother that she 
longed to tell. She knew that her mother’s congratulations 
would not jar upon her, though they might not sound the 
full organ -peal of her love. But all that her mother knew 
passed onwards to her father; so for the present, at any 
rate, she determined to realise her secret position alone. 
Somehow, the sympathy of all others that she most longed 
for was Ruth’s ; but the first communication of such an 
event was due to her parents. She imposed very strict 
regulations on Mr. Farquhar’s behaviour; and quarrelled 

37 2 


Sally takes her Money out 

and differed from him more than ever, but with a secret 
joyful understanding with him in her heart, even while they 
disagreed with each other — for similarity of opinion is not 
always — I think not often — needed for fulness and perfection 
of love. 

After Ruth’s “ detection,” as Mr. Bradshaw used to call 
it, he said he could never trust another governess again ; so 
Mary and Elizabeth had been sent to school the following 
Christmas, and their place in the family was but poorly 
supplied by the return of Mr. Richard Bradshaw, who had 
left London, and been received as a partner. 


CHAPTER XXIX 

SALLY TAKES HER MONEY OUT OF THE BANK 

The conversation narrated in the last chapter as taking 
place between Mr. Farquhar and Jemima, occurred about a 
year after Ruth’s dismissal from her situation. That year, 
full of small events, and change of place to the Bradshaws, 
had been monotonous and long in its course to the other 
household. There had been no want of peace and tran- 
quillity ; there had, perhaps, been more of them than in the 
preceding years, when, though unacknowledged by any, all 
must have occasionally felt the oppression of the falsehood — 
and a slight glancing dread must have flashed across their 
most prosperous state, lest, somehow or another, the mystery 
should be disclosed. But now, as the shepherd-boy in John 
Bunyan sweetly sang, “ He that is low need fear no fall.” 

Still, their peace was as the stillness of a grey autumnal 
day, when no sun is to be seen above, and when a quiet film 
seems drawn before both sky and earth, as if to rest the 
wearied eyes after the summer’s glare. Few events broke 
the monotony of their lives, and those events were of a 

373 


Ruth 

depressing kind. They consisted in Ruth’s futile endeavours 
to obtain some employment, however humble ; in Leonard’s 
fluctuations of spirits and health ; in Sally’s increasing deaf- 
ness ; in the final and unmendable wearing-out of the parlour 
carpet, which there was no spare money to replace, and so 
they cheerfully supplied its want by a large hearthrug that 
Ruth made out of ends of list ; and, what was more a subject 
of unceasing regret to Mr. Benson than all, the defection of 
some of the members of his congregation, who followed Mr. 
Bradshaw’s lead. Their places, to be sure, were more than 
filled up by the poor, who thronged to his chapel ; but still it 
was a disappointment to find that people about whom he 
had been earnestly thinking — to whom he had laboured to 
do good — should dissolve the connection without a word of 
farewell or explanation. Mr. Benson did not wonder that 
they should go ; nay, he even felt it right that they should 
seek that spiritual help from another, which he, by his 
error, had forfeited his power to offer ; he only wished they 
had spoken of their intention to him in an open and manly 
way. But not the less did he labour on among those to 
whom God permitted him to be of use. He felt age stealing 
upon him apace, although he said nothing about it, and no 
one seemed to be aware of it ; and he worked .the more 
diligently while “it was yet day.” It was not the number 
of his years that made him feel old, for he was only sixty, 
and many men are hale and strong at that time of life; in 
all probability, it was that early injury to his spine which 
affected the constitution of his mind as well as his body, and 
predisposed him, in the opinion of some at least, to a 
feminine morbidness of conscience. He had shaken off 
somewhat of this since the affair with Mr. Bradshaw; he 
was simpler and more dignified than he had been for several 
years before, during which time he had been anxious and 
uncertain in his manner, and more given to thought than to 
action. 

The one happy bright spot in this grey year was owing 
to Sally. As she said of herself, she believed she grew more 

374 


Sally takes her Money out 

“ nattered ” as she grew older ; but that she was conscious of 
her “ natteredness ” was a new thing, and a great gain to 
the comfort of the house, for it made her very grateful for 
forbearance, and more aware of kindness than she had ever 
been before. She had become very deaf; yet she was un- 
easy and jealous if she were not informed of all the family 
thoughts, plans, and proceedings, which often had (however 
private in their details) to be shouted to her at the full pitch 
of the voice. But she always heard Leonard perfectly. His 
clear and bell-like voice, which was similar to his mother’s 
till sorrow had taken the ring out of it, was sure to be heard 
by the old servant, though every one else had failed. Some- 
times, however, she “ got her hearing sudden,” as she 
phrased it, and was alive to every word and noise, more 
particularly when they did not want her to hear; and at 
such times she resented their continuance of the habit of 
speaking loud as a mortal offence. One day, her indignation 
at being thought deaf called out one of the rare smiles on 
Leonard’s face ; she saw it, and said, “ Bless thee, lad ; if it 
but amuses thee, they may shout through a ram’s horn to 
me, and I’ll never let on I’m not deaf. It’s as good a use as 
I can be of,” she continued to herself, “ if I can make that 
poor lad smile a bit.” 

If she expected to be everybody’s confidant, she made 
Leonard hers. “There!” said she, when she came home 
from her marketing one Saturday night, “look here, lad! 
Here’s forty-two pound, seven shillings and twopence ! It’s 
a mint of money, isn’t it ? I took it all in sovereigns for 
fear of fire.” 

“ What is it all for, Sally ? ” said he. 

“Ay, lad! that’s asking. It’s ’Mr. Benson’s money,” 
said she mysteriously, “ that I’ve been keeping for him. Is 
he in the study, think ye ? ” 

“ Yes ! I think so. Where have you been keeping it ? ” 

“ Never you mind ! ” She went towards the study, but, 
thinking she might have been hard on her darling in refusing 
to gratify his curiosity, she turned back and said- 

375 


Ruth 

“ I say — if thou wilt thou mayest do me a job of work 
some day. I’m wanting a frame made for a piece of 
writing.” 

And then she returned to go into the study, carrying her 
sovereigns in her apron. 

“ Here, Master Thurstan,” said she, pouring them out on 
the table before her astonished master. “ Take it, it’s all 
yours.” 

“ All mine ! What can you mean ? ” asked he, be- 
wildered. 

She did not hear him and went on— 

“ Lock it up safe out o’ the way. Dunnot go and leave 
it about to tempt folks. I’ll not answer for myself if 
money’s left about. I may be cribbing a sovereign.” 

“ But where does it come from ? ” said he. 

“ Come from ! ” she replied. “ Where does all money 
come from but the bank, to be sure. I thought any one 
could tell that.” 

“I have no money in the bank!” said he, more and 
more perplexed. 

“No, I knowed that ; but I had. Dunnot ye remember 
how ye would raise my wage last Martinmas eighteen year ? 
You and Faith were very headstrong, but I was too deep for 
you. See thee ! I went and put it i’ th’ bank. I was never 
going to touch it ; and if I had died it would have been all 
right, for I’d a will made, all regular and tight— made by a 
lawyer (leastwise he would have been a lawyer if he hadn’t 
got transported first). And now, thinks I, I think I’ll just 
go and get it out and give it ’em. Banks is not always 
safe.” 

“ I’ll take care of it for you with the greatest pleasure. 
Still, you know, banks allow interest,” 

“ D’ye suppose I don’t know all about interest and com- 
pound interest too by this time? I tell ye I want ye to 
spend it. It’s your own. It’s not mine. It always was 
yours. Now you’re not going to fret me by saying you think 
it mine.” 


37 ^ 


Sally takes her Money out 

Mr. Benson held out his hand to her, for he could 
not speak. She bent forward to him as he sat there and 
kissed him. 

“ Eh, bless ye, lad ! It’s the first kiss I’ve had of ye sin’ 
ye were a little lad, and it’s a great refreshment. Now don’t 
you and Faith go and bother me with talking about it. It’s 
just yours, and make no more ado.” 

She went back into the kitchen, and brought out her will, 
and gave Leonard directions how to make a frame for it ; for 
the boy was a very tolerable joiner, and had a box of tools 
which Mr. Bradshaw had given him some years ago. 

“ It’s a pity to lose such fine writing,” said she ; “ though 
I can’t say as I can read it. Perhaps you’d just read it for 
me, Leonard.” She sat open-mouthed with admiration at 
all the long words. 

The frame was made, and the will hung up opposite to 
her bed, unknown to any one but Leonard ; and, by dint of 
his repeated reading it over to her, she learnt all the words, 
except “testatrix,” which she would always call “testy 
tricks.” Mr. Benson had been too much gratified and 
touched, by her unconditional gift of all she had in the 
world, to reject it; but he only held it in his hands as a 
deposit until he could find a safe investment befitting so 
small a sum. The little rearrangements of the household 
expenditure had not touched him as they had done the 
women. He was aware that meat-dinners were not now 
every-day occurrences; but he preferred puddings and 
vegetables, and was glad of the exchange. He observed, 
too, that they all sat together in the kitchen in the evenings ; 
but the kitchen, with the well-scoured dresser, the shining 
saucepans, the well-blacked grate, and whitened hearth, and 
the warmth which seemed to rise up from the very flags, 
and ruddily cheer the most distant corners, appeared a very 
cosy and charming sitting-room ; and, besides, it appeared 
but right that Sally, in her old age, should have the com- 
panionship of those with whom she had lived in love and 
faithfulness so many years. He only wished he could more 

377 


Ruth 

frequently leave the solitary comfort of his study, and join 
the kitchen party; where Sally sat as mistress in the 
chimney corner, knitting by firelight, and Miss Benson and 
Ruth, with the candle between them, stitched away at their 
work; while Leonard strewed the ample dresser with his 
slate and books. He did not mope and pine over his 
lessons; they were the one thing that took him out of 
himself. As yet his mother could teach him, though in 
some respects it was becoming a strain upon her acquire- 
ments and powers. Mr. Benson saw this, but reserved his 
offers of help as long as he could, hoping that before his 
assistance became absolutely necessary, some mode of em- 
ployment beyond that of occasional plain-work might be laid 
open to Ruth. 

In spite of the communication they occasionally had with 
Mr. Farquhar, when he gave them the intelligence of his 
engagement to Jemima, it seemed like a glimpse into a world 
from which they were shut out. They wondered — Miss 
Benson and Ruth did at least— much about the details. Ruth 
sat over her sewing, fancying how all had taken place ; and, 
as soon as she had arranged the events which were going on 
among people and places once so familiar to her, she found 
some decrepancy, and set-to afresh to picture the declaration 
of love, and the yielding, blushing acceptance ; for Mr. 
Farquhar had told little beyond the mere fact that there was 
an engagement between himself and Jemima which had 
existed for some time, but which had been kept secret until 
now, when it was acknowledged, sanctioned, and to be ful- 
filled as soon as he returned from an arrangement of family 
affairs in Scotland. This intelligence had been enough for 
Mr. Benson, who was the only person Mr. Farquhar saw ; 
as Ruth always shrank from the post of opening the door, 
and Mr. Benson was apt at recognising individual knocks, 
and always prompt to welcome Mr. Farquhar. 

Miss Benson occasionally thought — and what she thought 
she was in the habit of saying — that Jemima might have 
come herself to announce such an event to old friends ; but 

37S 


Sally takes her Money out 

Mr. Benson decidedly vindicated her from any charge of 
neglect, by expressing his strong conviction that to her they 
owed Mr Farquhar’s calls — his all but out-spoken offers 
of service — his quiet, steady interest in Leonard ; and, 
moreover (repeating the conversation he had had with her 
in the street, the first time they met after the disclosure), 
Mr. Benson told his sister how glad he was to find that, 
with all the warmth of her impetuous disposition hurrying 
her on to rebellion against her father, she was now attaining 
to that just self-control which can distinguish between mere 
wishes and true reasons — that she could abstain from coming 
to see Ruth while she would do but little good, reserving 
herself for some great occasion or strong emergency. 

Ruth said nothing, but she yearned all the more in silence 
to see Jemima. In her recollection of that fearful interview 
with Mr. Bradshaw, which haunted her yet, sleeping or 
waking, she was painfully conscious that she had not thanked 
Jemima for her generous, loving advocacy ; it had passed 
unregarded at the time in intensity of agony — but now she 
recollected that by no word, or tone, or touch, had she 
given any sign of gratitude. Mr. Benson had never told her 
of his meeting with Jemima ; so it seemed as if there were 
no hope of any future opportunity : for it is strange how two 
households, rent apart by some dissension, can go through 
life, their parallel existences running side by side, yet never 
touching each other, near neighbours as they are, habitual 
and familiar guests as they may have been. 

Ruth’s only point of hope was Leonard. She was weary 
of looking for work and employment, which everywhere 
seemed held above her reach. She was not impatient of this, 
but she was very, very sorry. She felt within her such capa- 
bility, and all ignored her, and passed her by on the other side. 
But she saw some progress in Leonard. Not that he could 
continue to have the happy development, and genial ripening, 
which other boys have ; leaping from childhood to boyhood, 
and thence to youth, with glad bounds, and unconsciously 
enjoying every age. At present there was no harmony in 

379 


Ruth 

Leonard’s character ; he was as full of thought and self-con- 
sciousness as many men, planning his actions long before- 
hand, so as to avoid what he dreaded, and what she could 
not yet give him strength to face, coward as she was her- 
self, and shrinking from hard remarks. Yet Leonard was 
regaining some of his lost tenderness towards his mother ; 
when they were alone he would throw himself on her neck 
and smother her with kisses, without any apparent cause for 
such a passionate impulse. If any one was by, his manner 
was cold and reserved. The hopeful parts of his character 
were the determination evident in him to be a “ law unto 
himself,” and the serious thought which he gave to the 
formation of this law. There was an inclination in him to 
reason, especially and principally with Mr. Benson, on the 
great questions of ethics which the majority of the world have 
settled long ago. But I do not think he ever so argued with 
his mother. Her lovely patience, and her humility, was 
earning its reward ; and from her quiet piety, bearing sweetly 
the denial of her wishes — the refusal of her begging — the dis- 
grace in which she lay, while others, less worthy were employed 
— this, which perplexed him, and almost angered him at first, 
called out his reverence at last, and what she said he took for 
his law with proud humility ; and thus softly she was leading 
him up to God. His health was not strong ; it was not likely 
to be. He moaned and talked in his sleep, and his appetite was 
still variable, part of which might be owing to his preference 
of the hardest lessons to any outdoor exercise. But this 
last unnatural symptom was vanishing before the assiduous 
kindness of Mr. Farquhar, and the quiet but firm desire of 
his mother. Next to Ruth, Sally had perhaps the most 
influence over him ; but he dearly loved both Mr. and Miss 
Benson ; although he was reserved on this, as on every point 
not purely intellectual. His was a hard childhood, and his 
mother felt that it was so. Children bear any moderate 
degree of poverty and privation cheerfully ; but, in addition 
to a good deal of this, Leonard had to bear a sense of dis- 
grace attaching to him and to the creature he loved best ; 

38° 


Sally takes her Money out 

this it was that took out of him the buoyancy and natural 
gladness of youth, in a way which no scantiness of food or 
clothing or want of any outward comfort, could ever have, 
done. 

Two years had passed away — two long, eventless years. 
Something was now going to happen, which touched their 
hearts very nearly, though out of their sight and hearing. 
Jemima was going to be married this August, and by-and-by 
the very day was fixed. It was to be on the 14th. On the 
evening of the 13th, Euth was sitting alone in the parlour, 
idly gazing out on the darkening shadows in the little 
garden ; her eyes kept filling with quiet tears, that rose, not 
for her own isolation from all that was going on of bustle 
and preparation, for the morrow’s event, but because she 
had seen how Miss Benson had felt that she and her brother 
were left out from the gathering of old friends in the Brad- 
shaw family. As Euth sat, suddenly she was aware of a 
figure by her; she started up, and in the gloom of the 
apartment she recognised Jemima. In an instant they were 
in each other’s arms — a long, fast embrace. 

“ Can you forgive me ? ” whispered Jemima in Euth’s 

ear. 

“ Forgive you ! What do you mean ? What have I to 
forgive ? The question is, can I ever thank you as I long to 
do, if I could find words ? ” 

“ Oh, Euth, how I hated you once ! ” 

“ It was all the more noble in you to stand by me as you 
did. You must have hated me when you knew how I was 
deceiving you all ! 

“No, that was not it that made me hate you. It was 
before that. Oh, Euth, I did hate you ! ” 

They were silent for some time, still holding each other’s 
hands. Euth spoke first — 

“ And you are going to be married to-morrow ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Jemima. “ To-morrow at nine o’clock. 
But I don’t think I could have been married without coming 
to wish Mr. Benson and Miss Faith good-bye,” 

381 


Ruth 

“ I will go for them,” said Ruth. 

“ No, not just yet. I want to ask you one or two 
questions first. Nothing very particular ; only it seems as 
if there had been such a strange, long separation between 
us. Ruth,” said she, dropping her voice, “is Leonard 
stronger than he was ? I was so sorry to hear about him 
from Walter. But he is better? ” asked she anxiously. 

“ Yes, he is better. Not what a boy of his age should 
be,” replied his mother, in a tone of quiet but deep mourn - 
fulness. “ Oh, Jemima ! ” continued she, “ my sharpest 
punishment comes through him. To think of what he 
might have been, and what he is.” 

“ But Walter says he is both stronger in health, and not 
so — nervous and shy;” Jemima added the last words in a 
hesitating and doubtful manner, as if she did not know how 
to express her full meaning without hurting Ruth. 

“ He does not show that he feels his disgrace so much. 
I cannot talk about it, Jemima, my heart aches so about 
him. But he is better,” she continued, feeling that Jemima’s 
kind anxiety required an answer at any cost of pain to her- 
self. “ He is only studying too closely now ; he takes to 
his lessons evidently as a relief from thought. He is very 
clever, and I hope and trust, yet I tremble to say it, I believe 
he is very good.” 

“ You must let him come and see us very often when we 
come back. We shall be two months away. We are going 
to Germany, partly on Walter’s business. Ruth, I have 
been talking to papa to-night, very seriously and quietly; 
and it has made me love him so much more, and under- 
stand him so much better.” 

“ Does he know of your coming here ? I hope he does,” 
said Ruth. 

“ Yes. Not that he liked my doing it at all. But, 
somehow, I can always do things against a person’s wishes 
more easily when I am on good terms with them — that’s 
not exactly what I meant ; but now to-night, after papa had 
had been showing me that he really loved me more than I 

3 82 , 


Sally takes her Money out 

ever thought he had done (for I always fancied he was so 
absorbed in Dick, he did not care much for us girls), I felt 
brave enough to say that I intended to come here and bid 
you all good-bye. He was silent for a minute, and then 
said I might do it, but I must remember he did not approve 
of it, and was not to be compromised by my coming ; still 
I can tell that, at the bottom of his heart, there is some of 
the old kindly feeling to Mr. and Miss Benson, and I don’t 
despair of its all being made up, though, perhaps, I ought 
to say that mamma does.” 

“ Mr. and Miss Benson won’t hear of my going away,” 
said Ruth sadly. 

“ They are quite right.” 

“ But I am earning nothing. I cannot get any employ- 
ment. I am only a burden and an expense.” 

“ Are you not also a pleasure ? And Leonard, is he not 
a dear object of love ? It is easy for me to talk, I know, 
who am so impatient. Oh, I never deserved to be so happy 
as I am ! You don’t know how good Walter is. I used to 
think him so cold and cautious. But .now, Ruth, will you 
tell Mr. and Miss Benson that I am here ? There is signing 
of papers, and I don’t know what to be done at home. 
And when I come back, I hope to see you often, if you’ll 
let me.” 

Mr. and Miss Benson gave her a warm greeting. Sally 
was called in, and would bring a candle with her, to have a 
close inspection of her, in order to see if she was changed 
— she had not seen her for so long a time, she said ; and 
Jemima stood laughing and blushing in the middle of the 
room, while Sally studied her all over, and would not be 
convinced that the old gown which she was wearing for the 
last time was not one of the new wedding ones. The con- 
sequence of which misunderstanding was, that Sally, in her 
short petticoats and bedgown, turned up her nose at the 
old-fashioned way in which Miss Bradshaw’s gown was 
made. But Jemima knew the old woman, and rather 
enjoyed the contempt for her dress. At last she kissed 

3 S 3 


Ruth 

them all, and ran away to her impatient Mr. Farquhar, who 
was awaiting her. 

Not many weeks after this, the poor old woman whom I 
have named as having become a friend of Euth’s during 
Leonard’s illness three years ago, fell down and broke her 
hip-bone. It was a serious, probably a fatal, injury, for one 
so old ; and as soon as Euth heard of it she devoted all her 
leisure time to old Ann Fleming. Leonard had now out- 
stripped his mother’s powers of teaching, and Mr. Benson 
gave him his lessons ; so Euth was a great deal at the 
cottage both night and day. 

There Jemima found her one November evening, the 
second after their return from their prolonged stay on the 
Continent. She and Mr. Farquhar had been to the Bensons, 
and had sat there some time; and now Jemima had come 
on just to see Euth for five minutes, before the evening was 
too dark for her to return alone. She found Euth sitting on 
a stool before the fire, which was composed of a few sticks 
on the hearth. The blaze they gave was, however, enough 
to enable her to read; and she was deep in study of the 
Bible in which she had read aloud to the poor old woman, 
until the latter had fallen asleep. Jemima beckoned her 
out, and they stood on the green just before the open door, 
so that Euth could see if Ann awoke. 

“ I have not many minutes to stay, only I felt as if I 
must see you. And we want Leonard to come to us to see 
all our German purchases, and hear all our German adven- 
tures. May he come to-morrow ? ” 

“Yes; thank you. Oh! Jemima, I have heard* some- 
thing — I have got a plan that makes me so happy ! I have 
not told any one yet. But Mr. Wynne (the parish doctor, 
you know) has asked me if I would go out as a sick nurse — 
he thinks he could find me employment.” 

“ You, a sick nurse ! ” said Jemima, involuntarily glancing 
over the beautiful lithe figure, and the lovely refinement of 
Euth’s face as the light of the rising moon fell upon it. 
“ My dear Euth, I don’t think you are fitted for it ! ” 

384 


Sally takes her Money out 

“Don’t you?” said Euth, a little disappointed. “I 
think I am ; at least, that I should be very soon. I like 
being about sick and helpless people ; I always feel so sorry for 
them ; and then I think I have the gift of a very delicate 
touch, which is such a comfort in many cases. And I should 
try to be very watchful and patient. Mr. Wynne proposed 
it himself.” 

“ It was not in that way I meant you were not fitted for 
it. I meant that you were fitted for something better. Why, 
Euth, you are better educated than I am ! ” 

“ But if nobody will allow me to teach ? — for that is what 
I suppose you mean. Besides, I feel as if all my education 
would be needed to make me a good sick nurse.” 

“ Your knowledge of Latin, for instance,” said Jemima, 
hitting, in her vexation at the plan, on the first acquirement 
of Euth she could think of. 

“ Well ! ” said Euth, “ that won’t come amiss ; I can read 
the prescriptions.” 

“ Which the doctors would rather you did not do.” 

“ Still, you can’t say that any knowledge of any kind will 
be in my way, or will unfit me for my work.” 

“ Perhaps not. But all your taste and refinement will be 
in your way, and will unfit you.” 

“ You have not thought about this so much as I have, or 
you would not say so. Any fastidiousness I shall have to 
get rid of, and I shall be better without ; but any true refine- 
ment I am sure I shall find of use ; for don’t you think that 
every power we have may be made to help us in any right 
work, whatever that is ? Would you not rather be nursed 
by a person who spoke gently and moved quietly about, 
than by a loud bustling woman ? ” 

“ Yes, to be sure ; but a person unfit for anything else 
may move quietly, and speak gently, and give medicine when 
the doctor orders it, and keep awake at night ; and those 
are the best qualities I ever heard of in a sick nurse. 

Euth was quite silent for some time. At last she said, 
“ At any rate it is work, and as such I am thankful for it. 

385 2 c 


Ruth 

You cannot discourage me — and perhaps you know too little 
of what my life has been — how set apart in idleness I have 
been — to sympathise with me fully.” 

“ And I wanted you to come to see us — me in my new 
home. Walter and I had planned that we would persuade 
you to come to us very often ” (she had planned, and Mr. 
Farquhar had consented) ; “ and now you will have to be 
fastened up in a sick-room.” 

“ I could not have come,” said Euth quickly. “ Dear 
Jemima ! it is like you to have thought of it — but I could not 
come to your house. It is not a thing to reason about. It 
is just feeling. But I do feel as if I could not go. Dear 
Jemima! if you are ill or sorrowful, and want me, I will 
come ” 

“ So you would and must to any one, if you take up that 
calling.” 

“ But I should come to you, love, in quite a different 
way ; I should go to you with my heart full of love — so full 
that I am afraid I should be too anxious.” 

“ I almost wish I were ill, that I might make you come 
at once.” 

“ And I am almost ashamed to think how I should like 
you to be in some position in which I could show you how 
well I remember that day — that terrible day in the school- 
room. God bless you for it, Jemima ! ” 


CHAPTER XXX 

THE FORGED DEED 

Mr. Wynne, the parish surgeon, was right. He could and 
did obtain employment for Ruth as a sick nurse. Her home 
was with the Bensons ; every spare moment was given to 
Leonard and to them; but she was at the call of all the 

386 


The Forged Deed 

invalids in the town. At first her work lay exclusively among 
the paupers. At first, too, there was a recoil from many 
circumstances, which impressed upon her the most fully the 
physical sufferings of those whom she tended. But she tried 
to lose the sense of these — or rather to lessen them, and 
make them take their appointed places — in thinking of the 
individuals themselves, as separate from their decaying 
frames; and all along she had enough self-command to 
control herself from expressing any sign of repugnance. She 
allowed herself no nervous haste of movement or touch that 
should hurt the feelings of the poorest, most friendless 
creature, who ever lay a victim to disease. There was no 
rough getting over of all the disagreeable and painful work of 
her employment. When it was a lessening of pain to have 
the touch careful and delicate, and the ministration per- 
formed with gradual skill, Ruth thought of her charge, and 
not of herself. As she had foretold, she found a use for all 
her powers. The poor patients themselves were uncon- 
sciously gratified and soothed by her harmony and refine- 
ment of manner, voice, and gesture. If this harmony and 
refinement had been merely superficial, it would not have 
had this balmy effect. That arose from its being the true 
expression of a kind, modest, and humble spirit. By degrees 
her reputation as a nurse spread upwards, and many sought 
her good offices who could well afford to pay for them. 
Whatever remuneration was offered to her, she took it simply 
and without comment ; for she felt that it was not hers to 
refuse ; that it was, in fact, owing to the Bensons for her 
and her child’s subsistence. She went wherever her services 
were first called for. If the poor bricklayer, who broke both his 
legs in a fall from the scaffolding, sent for her when she was 
disengaged, she went and remained with him until he could 
spare her, let who would be the next claimant. From the 
happy and prosperous in all but health she would occasion- 
ally beg off, when some one less happy and more friendless 
wished for her; and sometimes she would ask for a little 
money from Mr. Benson to give to such in their time of need. 

387 


Ruth 

But it was astonishing how much she was able to do without 
money. 

Her ways were very quiet ; she never spoke much. Any 
one who has been oppressed with the weight of a vital secret 
for years, and much more any one the character of whose 
life has been stamped by one event, and that producing 
sorrow and shame, is naturally reserved. And yet Ruth’s 
silence was not like reserve ; it was too gentle and tender for 
that. It had more the effect of a hush of all loud or disturb- 
ing emotions, and out of the deep calm the words that came 
forth had a beautiful power. She did not talk much about 
religion; but those who noticed her knew that it was the 
unseen banner which she was following. The low-breathed 
sentences which she spoke into the ear of the sufferer and 
the dying carried them upwards to God. 

She gradually became known and respected among the 
roughest boys of the rough populace of the town. They 
would make way for her when she passed along the streets 
with more deference than they used to most ; for all knew 
something of the tender care with which she had attended 
this or that sick person, and, besides, she was so often in 
connection with Death that something of the superstitious 
awe with which the dead were regarded by those rough boys 
in the midst of their strong life, surrounded her. 

She herself did not feel changed. She felt just as faulty 
— as far from being what she wanted to be, as ever. She 
best knew how many of her good actions were incomplete, 
and marred with evil. She did not feel much changed 
from the earliest Ruth she could remember. Everything 
seemed to change but herself. Mr. and Miss Benson grew 
old, and Sally grew deaf, and Leonard was shooting up, and 
Jemima was a mother. She and the distant hills that she 
saw from her chamber window, seemed the only things which 
were the same as when she first came to Eccleston. As she 
sat looking out, and taking her fill of solitude, which some- 
times was her most thorough rest — as she sat at the attic 
window looking abroad — she saw their next-door neighbour 

388 


The Forged Deed 

carried out to sun himself in his garden. When she first 
came to Eccleston, this neighbour and his daughter were 
often seen taking long and regular walks ; by-and-by his 
walks became shorter, and the attentive daughter would 
convoy him home, and set out afresh to finish her own. Of 
late years he had only gone out in the garden behind his 
house ; but at first he had walked pretty briskly there by his 
daughter’s help — now he was carried, and placed in a large, 
cushioned easy- chair, his head remaining where it was placed 
against the pillow, and hardly moving when his kind daughter, 
who was now middle-aged, brought him the first roses of the 
summer. This told Ruth of the lapse of life and time. 

Mr. and Mrs. Farquhar were constant in their attentions ; 
but there was no sign of Mr. Bradshaw ever forgiving the 
imposition which had been practised upon him, and Mr. 
Benson ceased to hope for any renewal of their intercourse. 
Still, he thought that he must know of all the kind attentions 
which Jemima paid to them, and of the fond regard which 
both she and her husband bestowed on Leonard. This latter 
feeling even went so far that Mr. Farquhar called one day, 
and with much diffidence begged Mr. Benson to urge Ruth 
to let him be sent to school at his (Mr. Farquhar’s) expense. 

Mr. Benson was taken by surprise, and hesitated. “ I 
do not know. It would be a great advantage in some 
respects ; and yet I doubt whether it would in others. His 
mother’s influence over him is thoroughly good, and I should 
fear that any thoughtless allusions to his peculiar position 
might touch the raw spot in his mind.” 

“ But he is so unusually clever, it seems a shame not to 
give him all the advantages he can have. Besides, does he 
see much of his mother now ? ” 

“ Hardly a day passes without her coming home to be an 
hour or so with him, even at her busiest times ; she says it 
is her best refreshment. And often, you know, she is dis- 
engaged for a week or two, except the occasional services 
which she is always rendering to those who need her. Your 
offer is very tempting , but there is so decidedly another view 

389 


Ruth 

of the question to be considered, that I believe we must refer 
it to her.” 

“ With all my heart. Don’t hurry her to a decision. 
Let her weigh it well. I think she will find the advantages 
preponderate.” 

“ I wonder if I might trouble you with a little business, 
Mr. Farquhar, as you are here ? ” 

“ Certainly ; I am only too glad to be of any use to you.” 

“ Why, I see from the report of the Star Life Assurance 
Company in the Times , which you are so good as to send me, 
that they have declared a bonus on the shares ; now it seems 
strange that I have received no notification of it, and I 
thought that perhaps it might be lying at your office, as Mr. 
Bradshaw was the purchaser of 'the shares, and I have 
always received the dividends through your firm.” 

Mr. Farquhar took the newspaper, and ran his eye over 
the report, 

“ I have no doubt that’s the way of it,” said he. “ Some 
of our clerks have been careless about it; or it may be 
Bichard himself. He is not always the most punctual and 
exact of mortals ; but I’ll see about it. Perhaps after all it 
mayn’t come for a day or two; they have always such 
numbers of these circulars to send out.” 

“ Oh ! I’m in no hurry about it. I only want to receive 
it some time before I incur any expenses, which the promise 
of this bonus may tempt me to indulge in.” 

Mr. Farquhar took his leave. That evening there was a 
long conference, for, as it happened, Buth was at home. 
She was strenuously against the school plan. She could see 
no advantages that would counterbalance the evil which she 
dreaded from any school for Leonard; namely, that the 
good opinion and regard of the world would assume too high 
an importance in his eyes. The very idea seemed to produce 
in her so much shrinking affright, that by mutual consent 
the subject was dropped; to be taken up again, or not, 
according to circumstances. 

Mr. Farquhar wrote the next morning, on Mr. Benson’s 
390 


The Forged Deed 

behalf, to the Insurance Company, to inquire about the 
bonus. Although he wrote in the usual formal way, he did 
not think it necessary to tell Mr. Bradshaw what he had 
done ; for Mr. Benson’s name was rarely mentioned between 
the partners ; each had been made fully aware of the views 
which the other entertained on the subject that had caused 
the estrangement ; and Mr. Farquhar felt that no external 
argument could affect Mr. Bradshaw’s resolved disapproval 
and avoidance of his former minister. 

As it happened, the answer from the Insurance Company 
(directed to the firm) was given to Mr. Bradshaw along with 
the other business letters. It was to the effect that Mr. 
Benson’s shares had been sold and transferred above a 
twelvemonth ago, which sufficiently accounted for the 
circumstance that no notification of the bonus had been sent 
to him. 

Mr. Bradshaw tossed the letter on one side, not displeased 
to have a good reason for feeling a little contempt at the 
unbusiness-like forgetfulness of Mr. Benson, at whose 
instance some one had evidently been writing to the In- 
surance Company. On Mr. Farquhar’s entrance, he 
expressed this feeling to him. 

“ Really,” he said, “ these Dissenting ministers have no 
more notion of exactitude in their affairs than a child ! The 
idea of forgetting that he has sold his shares, and applying 
for the bonus, when it seems he has transferred them only a 
year ago ! ” 

Mr. Farquhar was reading the letter while Mr. Bradshaw 
spoke. 

“ I don’t quite understand it,” said he. “ Mr. Benson 
was quite clear about it. He could not have received his 
half-yearly dividends unless he had been possessed of these 
shares ; and I don’t suppose Dissenting ministers, with all 
their ignorance of business, are unlike other men in knowing 
whether or not they receive the money that they believe to 
be owing to them.” 

“ I should not wonder if they were — if Benson was, at 
39 1 


Ruth 

any rate. Why, I never knew his watch to be right in all 
my life — it was always too fast or too slow ; it must have 
been a daily discomfort to him. It ought to have been. 
Depend upon it, his money matters are just in the same 
irregular state; no accounts kept, I’ll be bound.” 

“ I don’t see that that follows,” said Mr. Farquhar, half 
amused. “ That watch of his is a very curious one — belonged 
to his father and grandfather, I don’t know how far back.” 

“ And the sentimental feelings which he is guided by 
prompt him to keep it, to the inconvenience of himself and 
every one else.” 

Mr. Farquhar gave up the subject of the watch as 
hopeless. 

“ But about this letter. I wrote, at Mr. Benson’s desire, 
to the Insurance Office, and I am not satisfied with this 
answer. All the transaction has passed through our hands. 
I do not think it is likely Mr. Benson would write and sell 
the shares without, at any rate, informing us at the time, 
even though he forgot all about it afterwards.” 

“ Probably he told Richard, or Mr. Watson.” 

“We can ask Mr. Watson at once. I am afraid we must 
wait till Richard comes home, for I don’t know where a 
letter would catch him.” 

Mr. Bradshaw pulled the bell that rang into the head- 
clerk’s room, saying as he did so — 

“You may depend upon it, Farquhar, the blunder lies 
with Benson himself. He is just the man to muddle away 
his money in indiscriminate charity, and then to wonder 
what has become of it.” 

Mr. Farquhar was discreet enough to hold his tongue. 

“ Mr. Watson,” said Mr. Bradshaw, as the old clerk made 
his appearance, “ here is some mistake about those Insurance 
shares we purchased for Benson ten or a dozen years ago. 
He spoke to Mr. Farquhar about some bonus they are 
paying to the shareholders, it seems ; and, in reply to Mr. 
Farquhar’ s letter, the Insurance Company say the shares 
were sold twelve months since. Have you any knowledge 

39 2 


The Forged Deed 

of the transaction ? Has the transfer passed through your 
hands ? By the way ” (turning to Mr. Farquhar), “ who 
kept the certificates ? Did Benson or we?” 

“ I really don’t know,” said Mr. Farquhar. Perhaps Mr. 
Watson can tell us.” 

Mr. Watson meanwhile was studying the letter. When 
he had ended it, he took off his spectacles, wiped them, and 
replacing them, he read it again. 

“ It seems very strange, sir,” he said at length, with his 
trembling, aged voice, ‘‘for I paid Mr. Benson the account 
of the dividends myself last June, and got a receipt in form, 
and that is since the date of the alleged transfer.” 

“ Pretty nearly twelve months after it took place,” said 
Mr. Farquhar. 

“ How did you receive the dividends ? An order on the 
Bank, along with old Mrs. Cranmer’s ? ” asked Mr. Bradshaw 
sharply. 

“ I don’t know how they came. Mr. Bichard gave me 
the money, and desired me to get the receipt.” 

“ It’s unlucky Bichard is from home,” said Mr. Bradshaw ; 
“ he could have cleared up this mystery for us.” 

Mr. Farquhar was silent. 

“Do you know where the certificates were kept, Mr. 
Watson ? ” said he. 

“ I’ll not be sure, but I think they were with Mrs. 
Cranmer’s papers and deeds in box A, 24.” 

“ I wish old Cranmer would have made any other man his 
executor. She, too, is always coming with some unreasonable 
request or other.” 

“ Mr. Benson’s inquiry about his bonus is perfectly reason- 
able, at any rate.” 

Mr. Watson, who was dwelling in the slow fashion of age 
on what had been said before, now spoke — 

“ I’ll not be sure, but I am almost certain, Mr. Benson 
said, when I paid him last June, that he thought he ought to 
give the receipt on a stamp, and had spoken about it to 
Mr. Bichard the time before, but that Mr. Bichard said it 

393 


Ruth 

was of no consequence. Yes,” continued he, gathering up 
his memory as he went on, “ he did — I remember now — and 
I thought to myself that Mr. Richard was but a young man. 
Mr. Richard will know all about it.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Farquhar gravely. 

“ I shan’t wait till Richard’s return,” said Mr. Bradshaw. 
“We can soon see if the certificates are in the box Watson 
points out; if they are there, the Insurance people are no 
more fit to manage their concern than that cat, and I shall 
tell them so. If they are not there (as I suspect will prove 
to be the case), it is just forgetfulness on Benson’s part, as 
I have said from the first.” 

“You forget the payment of the dividends,” said Mr. 
Farquhar, in a low voice. 

“ Well, sir ! what then ? ” said Mr. Bradshaw abruptly. 
While he spoke — while his eye met Mr. Farquhar’s — the 
hinted meaning of the latter flashed through his mind ; but 
he was only made angry to find that such a suspicion could 
pass through any one’s imagination. 

“ I suppose I may go, sir,” said Watson respectfully, an 
uneasy consciousness of what was in Mr. Farquhar’s thoughts 
troubling the faithful old clerk. 

“Yes. Go. What do you mean about the dividends ? ” 
asked Mr. Bradshaw impetuously of Mr. Farquhar. 

“ Simply, that I think there can have been no forgetfulness 
— no mistake on Mr. Benson’s part,” said Mr. Farquhar, 
unwilling to put his dim suspicion into words. 

“ Then, of course, it is some blunder of that confounded 
Insurance Company. I will write to them to-day, and 
make them a little brisker and more correct in their state- 
ments.” 

“ Don’t you think it would be better to wait till Richard’s 
return ? He may be able to explain it.” 

“ No, sir ! ” said Mr. Bradshaw sharply. “ I do not think 
it would be better. It has not been my way of doing business 
to spare any one, or any company, the consequences of their 
own carelessness ; nor to obtain information second-hand, 

394 


The Forged Deed 

when I could have it direct from the source. I shall write to 
the Insurance Office by the next post.” 

Mr. Farquhar saw that any further remonstrance on his 
part would only aggravate his partner’s obstinacy: and, 
besides, it was but a suspicion, — an uncomfortable suspicion. 
It was possible that some of the clerks at the Insurance 
Office might have made a mistake. Watson was not sure, 
after all, that the certificates had been deposited in box A, 
24 ; and when he and Mr. Farquhar could not find them 
there, the old man drew more and yet more back from his 
first assertion of belief, that they had been placed there. 

Mr. Bradshaw wrote an angry and indignant reproach of 
carelessness to the Insurance Company. By the next mail 
one of their clerks came down to . Eccleston ; and, having 
leisurely refreshed himself at the inn, and ordered his dinner 
with care, he walked up to the great warehouse of Bradshaw 
& Co., and sent in his card, with a pencil notification, “ On 
the part of the Star Insurance Company,” to Mr. Bradshaw 
himself. 

Mr. Bradshaw held the card in his hand for a minute or 
two without raising his eyes. Then he spoke out loud and 
firm— 

“ Desire the gentleman to walk up. Stay ! I will ring 
my bell in a minute or two, and then show him upstairs.” 

When the errand-boy had closed the door, Mr. Bradshaw 
went to a cupboard where he usually kept a glass and a bottle 
of wine (of which he very seldom partook, for he was an ab- 
stemious man). He intended now to take a glass, but the 
bottle was empty ; and, though there was plenty more to be 
had for ringing, or even simply going into another room, he 
would not allow himself to do this. He stood and lectured 
himself in thought. 

“ After all, I am a fool for once in my life. If the certifi- • 
cates are in no box which I have yet examined, that does not 
imply they may not be in some one which I have not had 
time to search. Farquhar would stay so late last night! 
And, even if they are in none of the boxes here, that does not 

395 


Ruth 

prove ” He gave the bell a jerking ring, and it was yet 

sounding when Mr. Smith, the insurance clerk, entered. 

The manager of the Insurance Company had been con- 
siderably nettled at the tone of Mr. Bradshaw’s letter ; and 
had instructed the clerk to assume some dignity at first in 
vindicating (as it was well in his power to do) the character 
of the proceedings of the Company, but at the same time he 
was not to go too far, for the firm of Bradshaw & Co. was 
daily looming larger in the commercial world, and if. any 
reasonable explanation could be given it was to be received, 
and bygones be bygones. 

“ Sit down, sir ! ” said Mr. Bradshaw. 

“You are aware, sir, I presume, that I come on the part 
of Mr. Dennison, the manager of the Star Insurance Company, 
to reply in person to a letter of yours, of the 29th, addressed 
to him ? ” 

Mr. Bradshaw bowed. “ A very careless piece of business,” 
he said stiffly. 

“ Mr. Dennison does not think you will consider it as 
such when you have seen the deed of transfer, which I am 
commissioned to show you.” 

Mr. Bradshaw took the deed with a steady hand. He 
wiped his spectacles quietly, without delay, and without 
hurry, and adjusted them on his nose. It is possible that he 
was rather long in looking over the document — at least, the 
clerk had just begun to wonder if he was reading through the 
whole of it, instead of merely looking at the signature, when 

Mr. Bradshaw said : “ It is possible that it may be of 

course, you will allow me to take this paper to Mr. Benson, 
to — to .inquire if this be his signature? ” 

“ There can be no doubt of it, I think, sir,” said the 
clerk, calmly smiling, for he knew Mr. Benson’s signature 
well. 

“ I don’t know, sir — I don’t know.” (He was speaking 
as if the pronunciation of every word required a separate 
effort of will, like a man who has received a slight paralytic 
stroke.) 


39 6 


The Forged Deed 

“ You have heard, sir, of such a thing as forgery forgery, 

sir ? ” said he, repeating the last word very distinctly ; for he 
feared that the first time he had said it, it was rather slurred 
over. 

“ Oh, sir ! there is no room for imagining such a thing, 
I assure you. In our affairs we become aware of curious 
forgetfulness on the part of those who are not of business 
habits.” 

“ Still I should like to show it Mr. Benson, to prove to him 
his forgetfulness, you know. I believe, on my soul, it is some 
of his careless forgetfulness — I do, sir,” said he. Now he 
spoke very quickly. “It must have been. Allow me to 
convince myself. You shall have it back to-night, or the 
first thing in the morning.” 

The clerk did not quite like to relinquish the deed, nor 
yet did he like to refuse Mr. Bradshaw. If that very uncom- 
fortable idea of forgery should have any foundation in truth — 
and he had given up the writing ! There were a thousand 
chances to one against its being anything but a stupid 
blunder ; the risk was more imminent of offending one of the 
directors. 

As he hesitated, Mr. Bradshaw spoke very calmly, and 
almost with a smile on his face. He had regained his self- 
command. “ You are afraid, I see. I assure you, you may 
trust me. If there has been any fraud — if I have the 
slightest suspicion of the truth of the surmise I threw out 
just now,” — he could not quite speak the bare naked word 
that was chilling his heart — “ I will not fail to aid the ends 
of justice, even though the culprit should be my own son.” 

He ended, as he began, with a smile — such a smile ! — the 
stiff lips refused to relax and cover the teeth. But all the 
time he kept saying to himself — 

“ I don’t believe it— I don’t believe it. I’m convinced it’s 
a blunder of that old fool Benson.” 

But when he had dismissed the clerk, and secured the 
piece of paper, he went and locked the door, and laid his 
head on his desk, and moaned aloud. 

397 


Ruth 

He had lingered in the office for the two previous nights ; 
at first, occupying himself in searching for the certificates of 
the Insurance shares ; but, when all the boxes and other 
repositories for papers had been ransacked, the thought took 
hold of him that they might be in Richard’s private desk ; 
and, with the determination which overlooks the means to 
get at the end, he had first tried all his own keys on the 
complicated lock, and then broken it open with two decided, 
blows of a poker, the instrument nearest at hand. He did 
not find the certificates. Richard had always considered 
himself careful in destroying any dangerous or tell-tale 
papers ; but the stern father found enough, in what remained, 
to convince him that his pattern son — more even than his 
pattern son, his beloved pride — was far other than what he 
seemed. 

Mr. Bradshaw did not skip or miss a word. He did 
not shrink while he read. He folded up letter by letter ; he 
snuffed the candle when its light began to wane, and no 
sooner; but he did not miss or omit one paper — he read 
every word. Then, leaving the letters in a heap upon the 
table, and the broken desk to tell its own tale, he locked the 
door of the room which was appropriated to his son as 
junior partner, and carried the key away with him. 

There was a faint hope, even after this discovery of 
many circumstances of Richard’s life, which shocked and 
dismayed his father — there was still a faint hope that he 
might not be guilty of forgery — that it might not be no 
forgery after all — only a blunder — an omission — a 
stupendous piece of forgetfulness. That hope was the one 
straw that Mr. Bradshaw clung to. 

Late that night Mr. Benson sat in his study. Every 
one else in the house had gone to bed ; but he was expect- 
ing a summons to some one who was dangerously ill. He 
was not startled, therefore, at the knock which came to the 
front door about twelve ; but he was rather surprised at the 
character of the knock, so slow and loud, with a pause 
between each rap. His study- door was but a step from 

398 


The Forged Deed 

that which led into the street. He opened it, and there 
stood— Mr. Bradshaw; his large, portly figure not to be 
mistaken even in the dusky night. 

He said, “ That is right. It was you I wanted to see.” 
And he walked straight into the study. Mr. Benson 
followed, and shut the door. Mr. Bradshaw was standing 
by the table, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out the 
deed ; and, opening it, after a pause, in which you might 
have counted five, he held it out to Mr. Benson. 

“ Bead it ! said he. He spoke not another word until 
time had been allowed for its perusal. Then he added — 

“ That is your signature?” The words were an asser- 
tion, but the tone was that of question. 

“No, it is not,” said Mr. Benson decidedly. “It is 
very like my writing. I could almost say it was mine, but 
I know it is not.” 

“Recollect yourself a little. The date is August the 
third of last year, fourteen months ago. You may have 
forgotten it.” The tone of the voice had a kind of eager 
entreaty in it, which Mr. Benson did not notice — he was so 
startled at the fetch of his own writing. 

“It is most singularly like mine ; but I could not have 
signed away these shares— all the property I have — without 
the slightest remembrance of it.” 

“ Stranger things have happened. For the love of 
Heaven, think if you did not sign it. It’s a deed to 
transfer for those Insurance shares, you see. You don’t 
remember it ? You did not write this name — these words ? ” 
He looked at Mr. Benson with craving wistfulness for one 
particular answer. Mr. Benson was struck at last by the 
whole proceeding, and glanced anxiously at Mr. Bradshaw, 
whose manner, gait, and voice, were so different from usual 
that he might well excite attention. But as soon as the 
latter was aware of this momentary inspection, he changed 
his tone all at once. 

“ Don’t imagine, sir, I wish to force any invention upon 
you as a remembrance. If you did not write this name, I 

399 


Ruth 

know who did. Once more I ask you — does no glimmering 
recollection of — having needed money, we’ll say — I never 
wanted you to refuse my subscription to the chapel, God 
knows ! — of having sold these accursed shares ? — Oh ! I see 
by your face you did not write it ; you need not to speak to 
me— I know.” 

He sank down into a chair near him. His whole figure 
drooped. In a moment he was up, and standing straight as 
an arrow, confronting Mr. Benson, who could find no clue 
to this stern man’s agitation. 

“You say you did not write these words ?” * pointing to 
the signature, with an untrembling finger. “ I believe you ; 
Richard Bradshaw did write them.” 

“ My dear sir — my dear old friend ! ” exclaimed Mr. 
Benson, “ you are rushing to a conclusion for which, I am 
convinced, there is no foundation; there is no reason to 
suppose that because ” 

“ There is reason, sir. Do not distress yourself— I am 
perfectly calm.” His stony eyes and immovable face did 
indeed look rigid. “ What we have now to do is to punish 
the offence. I have not one standard for myself and those 
I love— (and, Mr. Benson, I did love him) — and another for 
the rest of the world. If a stranger had forged my name, I 
should have known it was my duty to prosecute him. You 
must prosecute Richard.” 

“ I will not,” said Mr. Benson. 

“ You think, perhaps, that I shall feel it acutely. You 
are mistaken. He is no longer as my son to me. I have 
always resolved to disown any child of mine who was guilty 
of sin. I disown Richard. He is as a stranger to me. I 

shall feel no more at his exposure — his punishment ” 

He could not go on for his voice was choking. “ Of course, 
you understand that I must feel shame at our connection ; 
it is that that is troubling me ; that is but consistent with a 
man who has always prided himself on the integrity of his 
name; but as for that boy, who has been brought up all 
his life as I have brought up my children, it must be some 

400 


The Forged Deed 

innate wickedness ! Sir, I can cut him off, though he has 
been as my right hand — beloved. Let me be no hindrance 
to the course of justice, I beg. He has forged your name — 
he has defrauded you of money — of your all, I think you 
said.” 

“ Some one has forged my name. I am not convinced 
that it was your son. Until I know all the circumstances, I 
decline to prosecute.” 

“ What circumstances ? ” asked Mr. Bradshaw, in an 
authoritative manner, which would have shown irritation but 
for his self-command. 

“ The force of the temptation — the previous habits of 
the person ” 

“ Of Bichard. He is the person,” Mr. Bradshaw 
put in. 

Mr. Benson went on, without taking any notice. “ I 
should think it right to prosecute, if I found out that this 
offence against me was only one of a series committed, with 
premeditation, against society. I should then feel, as a 
protector of others more helpless than myself ” 

“ It was your all,” said Mr. Bradshaw. 

“ It was all my money; it was not my all,” replied Mr. 
Benson ; and then he went on as if the interruption had 
never been — “ Against an habitual offender. I shall not 
prosecute Bichard. Not because he is your son — do not 
ima gine that ! I should decline taking such a step against 
any young man without first ascertaining the particulars 
about him, which I know already about Bichard, and which 
determine me against doing what would blast his character 
for life — would destroy every good quality he has.” 

“What good quality remains to him?” asked Mr. 
Bradshaw. “ He has deceived me— he has offended God.” 

“ Have we not all offended Him ? ” Mr. Benson said in 
a low tone. 

“Not consciously. I never do wrong consciously. But 
Bichard — Bichard.” The remembrance of the undeceiving 
letters — the forgery — filled up his heart so completely that 

401 2D 


Ruth 

he could not speak for a minute or two. Yet when he saw 
Mr. Benson on the point of saying something, he broke in — 
“ It is no use talking, sir. You and I cannot agree on 
these subjects. Once more, I desire you to prosecute that 
boy, who is no longer a child of mine/’ 

“ Mr. Bradshaw, I shall not prosecute him. I have said 
it once for all. To-morrow you will be glad that I do not 
listen to you. I should only do harm by saying more at 
present.” 

There is always something aggravating in being told, 
that the mood in which we are now viewing things strongly 
will not be our mood at some other time. It implies that 
our present feelings are blinding us, and that some more 
clear-sighted spectator is able to distinguish our future 
better than we do ourselves. The most shallow person 
dislikes to be told that any one can gauge his depth. Mr. 
Bradshaw was not soothed by this last remark of Mr. 
Benson’s. He stooped down to take up his hat and be 
gone. Mr. Benson saw his dizzy way of groping, and gave 
him what he sought for ; but he received no word of thanks. 
Mr. Bradshaw went silently towards the door, but, just as 
he got there, he turned round, and said — 

“ If there were more people like me, and fewer like you, 
there would be less evil in the world, sir. It’s your sentimen- 
talists that nurse up sin.” 

Although Mr. Benson had been very calm during this 
interview, he had been much shocked by what had been let 
out respecting Richard’s forgery ; not by the fact itself so 
much as by what it was a sign of. Still, he had known the 
young man from childhood, and had seen, and often regretted, 
that his want of moral courage had rendered him peculiarly 
liable to all the bad effects arising from his father’s severe 
and arbitrary mode of treatment. Dick would never have 
had “pluck” enough to be a hardened villain, under any 
circumstances : but, unless some good influence, some 
strength, was brought to bear upon him, he might easily 
sink into the sneaking scoundrel. Mr. Benson determined 

402 


An Accident to the Dover Coach 

to go to Mr. Farquhar’s the first thing in the morning, and 
consult him as a calm, clear-headed family friend — partner 
in the business, as well as son- and brother-in-law to the 
people concerned. 


CHAPTEE XXXI 

AN ACCIDENT TO THE DOVER COACH 

While Mr. Benson lay awake for fear of oversleeping him- 
self, and so being late at Mr. Farquhar’s (it was somewhere 
about six o’clock — dark as an October morning is at that 
time), Sally came to his door and knocked. She was always 
an early riser; and if she had not been gone to bed long 
before Mr. Bradshaw’s visit last night, Mr. Benson might 
safely have trusted to her callirfg him. 

“ Here’s a woman down below as must see you directly. 
She’ll be upstairs after me if you’re not down quick.” 

“ Is it any one from Clarke’s ? ” 

“ No, no ! not it, master,” said she through the keyhole ; 
“ I reckon it’s Mrs. Bradshaw, for all she’s muffled up.” 

He needed no other word. When he went down, Mrs. 
Bradshaw sat in his easy- chair, swaying her body to and fro, 
and crying without restraint. Mr. Benson came up to her, 
before she was aware that he was there. 

“ Oh ! sir,” said she, getting up and taking hold of both 
his hands, “ you won’t be so cruel, will you ? I have got 
some money somewhere — some money my father settled on 
me, sir ; I don’t know how much, but I think it’s more than 
two thousand pounds, and you shall have it all. If I can’t 
give it you now, I’ll make a will, sir. Only be merciful to 
poor Dick — don’t go and prosecute him, sir.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Bradshaw, don’t you agitate yourself in 
this way. I never meant to prosecute him.” 

“ But Mr. Bradshaw says that you must.” 

403 


Ruth 

“ I shall not, indeed. I have told Mr. Bradshaw so.” 

“ Has he been here ? Oh ! is not he cruel ? I don’t care. 
I have been a good wife till now. I know I have. I have 
done all he bid me, ever since we were married. But now I 
will speak my mind, and say to everybody how cruel he is — 
how hard to his own flesh and blood ! If he puts poor Dick 
in prison, I will go too. If I’m to choose between my 
husband and my son, I choose my son ; for he will have no 
friends, unless I am with him.” 

“ Mr. Bradshaw will think better of it. You will see that, 
when his first anger and disappointment are over, he will not 
be hard or cruel.” 

“ You don’t know Mr. Bradshaw,” said she mournfully, 
“ if you think he’ll change. I might beg and beg — I have 
done many a time, when we had little children, and I wanted 
to save them a whipping — but no begging ever did any 
good. At last I left it off. He’ll not change.” 

“ Perhaps not for human entreaty. Mrs. Bradshaw, is 
there nothing more powerful ? ” 

The tone of his voice suggested what he did not say. 

“ If you mean that God may soften his heart,” replied she 
humbly, “ I’m not going to deny God’s power — I have need to 
think of Him,” she continued, bursting into fresh tears, “ for 
I am a very miserable woman. Only think ! he cast it up 
against me last night, and said, if I had not spoilt Dick this 
never would have happened.” 

“ He hardly knew what he was saying last night. I will 
go to Mr. Farquhar’s directly, and see him ; and you had 
better go home, my dear Mrs. Bradshaw; you may rely 
upon our doing all that we can.” 

With some difficulty he persuaded her not to 'accompany 
him to Mr. Farquhar’s ; but he had, indeed, to take her to 
her own door, before he could convince her that, at present, 
she could do nothing but wait the result of the consultations 
of others. 

It was before breakfast, and Mr. Farquhar was alone ; so 
Mr. Benson had a quiet opportunity of telling the whole story 

404 


An Accident to the Dover Coach 

to the husband before the wife came down. Mr. Farquhar 
was not much surprised, though greatly distressed. The 
general opinion he had always entertained of Richard’s 
character had predisposed him to fear, even before the inquiry 
respecting the Insurance shares. But it was still a shock 
when it came, however much it might have been anticipated. 

“ What can we do ? ” said Mr. Benson, as Mr. Farquhar 
sat gloomily silent. 

“ That is just what I was asking myself. I think I must 
see Mr. Bradshaw, and try and bring him a little out of this 
unmerciful frame of mind. That must be the first thing. 
Will you object to accompany me at once? It seems of 
particular consequence that we should subdue its obduracy 
before the affair gets wind.” 

“ I will go with you willingly. But I believe I rather 
serve to irritate Mr. Bradshaw ; he is reminded of things he 
has said to me formerly, and which he thinks he is bound to 
act up to. However, I can walk with you to the door, and 
wait for you (if you’ll allow me) in the street. I want to 
know how he is to-day, both bodily and mentally ; for indeed, 
Mr. Farquhar, I should not have been surprised last night 
if he had dropped down dead, so terrible was his strain upon 
himself.” 

Mr. Benson was left at the door as he had desired, while 
Mr. Farquhar went in. 

“Oh, Mr. Farquhar, what is the matter? ” exclaimed the 
girls, running to him. “ Mamma sits crying in the old 
nursery. We believe she has been there all night. She will 
not tell us what it is, nor let us be with her ; and papa is 
locked up in his room, and won’t even answer us when we 
speak, though we know he is up and awake, for we heard 
him tramping about all night.” 

“ Let me go up to him,” said Mr. Farquhar. 

“ He won’t let you in. It will be of no use.” But in 
spite of what they said, he went up ; and to their surprise, 
after hearing who it was, their father opened the door, and 
admitted their brother-in-law. He remained with Mr. 

405 


Ruth 

Bradshaw about half-an-hour, and then came into the 
dining-room, where the two girls stood huddled over the fire, 
regardless of the untasted breakfast behind them ; and, 
writing a few lines, he desired them to take his note up to 
their mother, saying that it would comfort her a little, and 
that he should send Jemima, in two or three hours, with the 
baby — perhaps to remain some days with him. He had no 
time to tell them more ; Jemima would. 

He left them, and rejoined Mr. Benson. “ Come home 
and breakfast with me. I am off to London in an hour or 
two, and must speak with you first.” 

On reaching his house, he ran upstairs to ask Jemima to 
breakfast alone in her dressing-room, and returned in five 
minutes or less. 

“ Now I can tell you about it,” said he. “ I see my way 
clearly to a certain point. We must prevent Dick and his 
father meeting just now, or all hope of Dick’s reformation is 
gone for ever. His father is as hard as the nether millstone. 
He has forbidden me his house.” 

“ Forbidden you ! ” . 

“ Yes ; because I would not give up Dick as utterly lost 
and bad ; and because I said I should return to London with 
the clerk, and fairly tell Dennison (he’s a Scotchman, and a 
man of sense and feeling) the real state of the case. By the 
way, we must not say a word to the clerk ; otherwise he will 
expect an answer, and make out all sorts of inferences for 
himself, from the unsatisfactory reply he must have. 
Dennison will be upon honour — will see every side of the 
case — will know you refuse to prosecute ; the Company of 
which he is manager are no losers. Well ! when I said what 
I thought wise, of all this — when I spoke as if my course 
were a settled and decided thing, the grim old man asked me 
if he was to be an automaton in his own house. He assured 
me he had no feeling for Dick — all the time he was shaking 
like an aspen ; in short, repeating much the same things he 
must have said to you last night. However, I defied him, 
and the consequence is, I’m forbidden the house, and, what 

406 


An Accident to the Dover Coach 

more, he says he will not come to the office while I remain 
a partner.” 

“ What shall you do ? ” 

Send Jemima and the baby. There’s nothing like a 
young child for bringing people round to a healthy state of 
feeling ; and you don’t know what Jemima is, Mr. Benson ! 
No ! though you’ve known her from her birth. If she can’t 
comfort her mother, and if the baby can’t steal into her 
grandfather s heart, why — I don’t know what you may do to 
me. I shall tell J emima all, and trust to her wit and wisdom 
to work at this end, while I do my best at the other.” 

“ Bichard is abroad, is not he ? ” 

“ He will be in England to-morrow. I must catch him 
somewhere; but that I can easily do. The difficult point 
will be, what to do with him — what to say to him, when I 
find him. He must give up his partnership, that’s clear. I 
did not tell his father so, but I am resolved upon it. There 
shall be no tampering with the honour of the firm to which 
I belong.” 

“ But what will become of him ? ” asked Mr. Benson 
anxiously. 

“ I do not yet know. But, for Jemima’s sake — for his 
dour old father’s sake — I will not leave him adrift. I will 
find him some occupation as clear from temptation as I can. 
I will do all in my power. And he will do much better, if he 
has any good in him, as a freer agent, not cowed by his 
father into a want of individuality and self-respect. I believe 
I must dismiss you, Mr. Benson,” said he, looking at his 
watch ; “I have to explain all to my wife, and to go to that 
clerk. You shall hear from me in a day or two.” 

Mr. Benson half envied the younger man’s elasticity of 
mind, and power of acting promptly. He himself felt as if 
he wanted to sit down in his quiet study, and think over the 
revelations and events of the last twenty-four hours. It 
made him dizzy even to follow Mr. Farquhar’s plans, as he 
had briefly detailed them ; and some solitude and considera- 
tion would be required before Mr. Benson could decide upon 

407 


Ruth 

their justice and wisdom. He had been much shocked by 
the discovery of the overt act of guilt which Richard had 
perpetrated, low as his opinion of that young man had been 
for some time; and the consequence was, that he felt de- 
pressed, and unable to rally for the next few days. He had 
not even the comfort of his sister’s sympathy, as he felt 
bound in honour not to tell her anything ; and she was 
luckily so much absorbed in some household contest with 
Sally that she did not notice her brother’s quiet languor. 

Mr. Benson felt that he had no right at this time to 
intrude into the house which he had been once tacitly 
forbidden. If he went now to Mr. Bradshaw’s without 
being asked, or sent for, he thought it would seem like 
presuming on his knowledge of the hidden disgrace of one 
of the family. Yet he longed to go : he knew that Mr. 
Farquhar must be writing almost daily to Jemima, and he 
wanted to hear what he was doing. The fourth day after 
her husband’s departure she came, within half-an-hour after 
the post delivery, and asked to speak to Mr. Benson alone. 

She was in a state of great agitation, and had evidently 
been crying very much. 

“ Oh, Mr. Benson ! ” said she, “ will you come with me, 
and tell papa this sad news about Dick ? Walter has written 
me a letter at last, to say he has found him — he could not at 
first; but now it seems that, the day before yesterday, he 
heard of an accident which had happened to the Dover 
coach ; it was overturned — two passengers killed, and several 
badly hurt. Walter says we ought to be thankful, as he is, 
that Dick was not killed. He says it was such a relief to 
him on going to the place — the little inn nearest to where 
the coach was overturned — to find that Dick was only 
severely injured ; not one of those who was killed. But it 
is a terrible shock to us all. We had had no more dreadful 
fear to lessen the shock ; mamma is quite unfit for anything, 
and we none of us dare to tell papa.” Jemima had hard 
work to keep down her sobs thus far, and now they over- 
mastered her. 

408 


An Accident to the Dover Coach 

“ How is your father ? I have wanted to hear every day,” 
asked Mr. Benson tenderly. 

“ It was careless of me not to come and tell you ; but, 
indeed, I have had so much to do. Mamma would not go 
near him. He has said something which she seems as if she 
could not forgive. Because he came to meals, she would not. 
She has almost lived in the nursery ; taking out all Dick’s 
old playthings, and what clothes of his were left, and turning 
them over, and crying over them.” 

“ Then Mr. Bradshaw has joined you again ; I was afraid, 
from what Mr. Farquhar said, he was going to isolate himself 
from you all ? ” 

“ I wish he had,” said Jemima, crying afresh. “ It would 
have been more natural than the way he has gone on ; the 
only difference from his usual habit is, that he has never 
gone near the office, or else he has come to meals just as 
usual, and talked just as usual ; and even done what I never 
knew him do before, tried to make jokes — all in order to 
show us how little he cares.” 

“ Does he not go out at all ? ” 

“ Only in the garden. I am sure he does care after all ; 
he must care ; he cannot shake off a child in this way, 
though he thinks he can ; and that makes me so afraid of 
telling him of this accident. Will you come, Mr. Benson ? ” 

He needed no other word. He went with her, as she 
rapidly threaded her way through the by-streets. When 
they reached the house, she went in without knocking, and, 
putting her husband’s letter into Mr. Benson’s hand, she 
opened the door of her father’s room, and saying — “ Papa, 
here is Mr. Benson,” left them alone. 

Mr. Benson felt nervously incapable of knowing what to 
do, or to say. He had surprised Mr. Bradshaw sitting idly 
over the fire — gazing dreamily into the embers. But he had 
started up, and drawn his chair to the table, on seeing his 
visitor ; and, after the first necessary words of politeness 
were over, he seemed to expect him to open the conversation. 

“ Mrs. Farquhar has asked me,” said M^. Benson, 
409 


Ruth 

plunging into the subject with a trembling heart, “ to tell 
you about a letter she has received from her husband; ” he 
stopped for an instant, for he felt that he did not get nearer 
the real difficulty, and yet could not tell the best way of 
approaching it. 

“ She need not have given you that trouble. I am aware 
of the reason of Mr. Farquhar’s absence. I entirely disap- 
prove of his conduct. He is regardless of my wishes ; and 
disobedient to the commands which, as my son-in-law, I 
thought he would have felt bound to respect. If there is any 
more agreeable subject that you can introduce, I shall be 
glad to hear you, sir.” 

“ Neither you, nor I, must think of what we like to hear 
or to say. You must hear what concerns your son.” 

“ I have disowned the young man who was my son,” 
replied he coldly. 

“ The Dover coach has been overturned,” said Mr. 
Benson, stimulated into abruptness by the icy sternness of 
the father. But, in a flash, he saw what lay below that 
terrible assumption of indifference. Mr. Bradshaw glanced 
up in his face one look of agony — and then went grey- pale ; 
so livid that Mr. Benson got up to ring the bell in affright, 
but Mr. Bradshaw motioned to him to sit still. 

“ Oh ! I have been too sudden, sir — he is alive, he is 
alive ! ” he exclaimed, as he saw the ashy face working in a 
vain attempt to speak ; but the poor lips (so wooden, not a 
minute ago) went working on and on, as if Mr. Benson’s 
words did not sink down into the mind, or reach the under- 
standing. Mr. Benson went hastily for Mrs. Farquhar. 

“ Oh, Jemima ! ” said he, “ I have done it so badly — I 
have been so cruel — he is very ill, I fear — bring water, 

brandy ” and he returned with all speed into the room. 

Mr. Bradshaw — the great, strong, iron man — lay back in his 
chair in a swoon, a fit. 

“ Fetch my mother, Mary. Send for the doctor, Eliza- 
beth,” said Jemima, rushing to her father. She and Mr. 
Benson di$. all in their power to restore him. Mrs. Bradshaw 

410 


An Accident to the Dover Coach 

forgot all her vows of estrangement from the dead-like 
husband, who might never speak to her, or hear her again, 
and bitterly accused herself for every angry word she had 
spoken against him during these last few miserable days. 

Before the doctor came, Mr. Bradshaw had opened his 
eyes and partially rallied, although he either did not, or could 
not speak. He looked struck down into old age. His eyes 
were senseless in their expression, but had the dim ' glaze of 
many years of life upon them. His lower jaw fell from his 
upper one, giving a look of melancholy depression to the 
face, although the lips hid the unclosed teeth. But he 
answered correctly (in monosyllables, it is true) all the ques- 
tions which the doctor chose to ask. And the medical man 
was not so much impressed with the serious character of the 
seizure as the family, who knew all the hidden mystery 
behind, and had seen their father lie for the first time with 
the precursor aspect of death upon his face. Rest, watching, 
and a little medicine, were what the doctor prescribed ; it 
was so slight a prescription, for what had appeared to Mr. 
Benson so serious an attack, that he wished to follow the 
medical man out of the room to make further inquiries, and 
learn the real opinion which he thought must lurk behind. 
But, as he was following the doctor, he — they all — were 
aware of the effort Mr. Bradshaw was making to rise, in 
order to arrest Mr. Benson’s departure. He did stand up, 
supporting himself with one hand on the table, for his legs 
shook under him. Mr. Benson came back instantly to the 
spot where he was. For a moment it seemed as if he had 
not the right command of his voice : but at last he said, 
with a tone of humble, wistful entreaty, which was very 
touching — 

“ He is alive, sir ; is he not ? ” 

“ Yes, sir — indeed he is ; he is only hurt. He is sure to 
do well. Mr. Farquhar is with him,” said Mr. Benson, 
almost unable to speak for tears. 

Mr. Bradshaw did not remove his eyes from Mr. Benson’s 
face for more than a minute after his question had been 

411 


Ruth 

answered. He seemed as though he would read his very 
soul, and there see if he spoke the truth. Satisfied at last, 
he sank slowly into his chair ; and they were silent for a 
little space, waiting to perceive if he would wish for any 
further information just then. At length he put his hands 
slowly together in the clasped attitude of prayer, and said — 
“ Thank God ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXII 

THE BRADSHAW PEW AGAIN OCCUPIED 

If Jemima allowed herself now and then to imagine that one 
good would result from the discovery of Richard’s delinquency, 
in the return of her father and Mr. Benson to something of 
their old understanding and their old intercourse — if this 
hope fluttered through her mind, it was doomed to dis- 
appointment. Mr. Benson would have been most happy to 
go, if Mr. Bradshaw had sent for him : he was on the watch 
for what might be even the shadow of such an invitation — 
but none came. Mr. Bradshaw, on his part, would have 
been thoroughly glad if the wilful seclusion of his present 
life could have been broken by the occasional visits of the 
old friend whom he had once forbidden the house ; but, this 
prohibition having passed his lips, he stubbornly refused to 
do anything which might be construed into unsaying it. 
Jemima was for some time in despair of his ever returning 
to the office, or resuming his old habits of business. He had 
evidently threatened as much to her husband. All that 
Jemima could do was to turn a deaf ear to every allusion to 
this menace, which he threw out from time to time, evidently 
with a view to see if it had struck deep enough into her 
husband’s mind for him to have repeated it to his wife. If 
Mr. Farquhar had named it — if it was known only to two or 
three to have been, but for one half-hour even, his resolution 
. 4 1 2 


The Bradshaw Pew again occupied 

— Mr. Bradshaw could have adhered to it, without any other 
reason than the maintenance of what he called consistency, 
but which was in fact doggedness. Jemima was often 
thankful that her mother was absent, and gone to nurse her 
son. If she had been at home, she would have entreated 
and implored her husband to fall back into his usual habits, 
and would have shown such a dread of his being as good as 
his word, that he would have been compelled to adhere to it 
by the very consequence affixed to it. Mr. Farquhar had 
hard work, as it was, in passing rapidly enough between the 
two places — attending to his business at Eccleston ; and 
deciding, comforting, and earnestly talking, in Bichard’s 
sick-room. During an absence of his, it was necessary to 
apply to one of the partners on some matter of importance ; 
and accordingly, to Jemima’s secret joy, Mr. Watson came 
up and asked if her father was well enough to see him on 
business ? Jemima carried in this inquiry literally ; and the 
hesitating answer which her father gave was in the affirm- 
ative. It was not long before she saw him leave the house, 
accompanied by the faithful old clerk ; and when he met her 
at dinner he made no allusion to his morning visitor, or to 
his subsequent going out. But from that time forwards he 
went regularly to the office. He received all the information 
about Dick’s accident, and his progress towards recovery, in 
perfect silence, and in as indifferent a manner as he could 
assume ; but yet he lingered about the family, sitting-room 
every morning until the post had come in which brought all 
letters from the south. 

When Mr. Farquhar at last returned to bring the news of 
Dick’s perfect convalescence, he resolved to tell Mr. Brad- 
shaw all that he had done and arranged for his son’s future 
career ; but, as Mr. Farquhar told Mr. Benson afterwards, he 
could not really say if Mr. Bradshaw had attended to one 
word that he said. 

“ Rely upon it,” said Mr. Benson, “ he has not only 
attended to it, but treasured up every expression you have 
used.” 


4i3 


Ruth 

“ Well, I tried to get some opinion, or sign of emotion, 
out of him. I had not much hope of the latter, I must 
own ; but I thought he would have said whether I had done 
wisely or not in procuring that Glasgow situation for Dick — 
that he would, perhaps, have been indignant at my ousting 
him from the partnership so entirely on my own responsi- 
bility.” 

“ How did Richard take it ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing could exceed his penitence. If one had 
never heard of the proverb, ‘ When the devil was sick, 
the devil a monk would be,’ I should have had greater faith 
in him ; or if he had had more strength of character to begin 
with, or more reality and less outward appearance of good 
principle instilled into him. However, this Glasgow situation 
is the very thing ; clear, defined duties, no great trust reposed 
in him, a kind and watchful head, and introductions to a 
better class of associates than I fancy he has ever been 
thrown amongst before. For, you know, Mr. Bradshaw 
dreaded all intimacies for his son, and wanted him to 
eschew all society beyond his own family — would never 
allow him to ask a friend home. Really, when I think of 
the unnatural life Mr. Bradshaw expected him to lead, I get 
into charity with him, and have hopes. By the way, have 
you ever succeeded in persuading his mother to send Leo- 
nard to school ? He may run the same risk from isolation 
as Dick : not be able to choose his companions wisely when 
he grows up, but be too much overcome by the excitement 
of society to be very discreet as to who are his associates. 
Have you spoken to her about my plan ? ” 

“ Yes ! but to no purpose. I cannot say that she would 
even admit an argument on the subject. She seemed to 
have an invincible repugnance to the idea of exposing him 
to the remarks of other boys on his peculiar position.” 

“ They need never know of it. Besides, sooner or later, 
he must step out of his narrow circle, and encounter remark 
and scorn.” 

“ True,” said Mr. Benson mournfully. “ And you may 
414 


The Bradshaw Pew again occupied 

depend upon it, if it really is the best for Leonard, she will 
come round to it by-and-by. It is almost extraordinary to 
see the way in which her earnest and most unselfish 
devotion to this boy’s real welfare leads her to right and 
wise conclusions.” 

“ I wish I could tame her so as to let me meet her as a 
friend. Since the baby was born, she comes to see Jemima. 
My wife tells me, that she sits and holds it soft in her arms, 
and talks to it as if her whole soul went out to the little 
infant. But if she hears a strange footstep on the stair, 
what Jemima calls the ‘wild-animal look’ comes back into 
her eyes, and she steals away like some frightened creature. 
With all that she has done to redeem her character, she 
should not be so timid of observation.” 

“You may well say * with all that she has done ! ’ We 
of her own household hear little or nothing of what she does. 
If she wants help, she simply tells us how and why ; but if 
not — perhaps because it is some relief to her to forget for a 
time the scenes of suffering in which she has been acting the 
part of comforter, and perhaps because there always was a 
shy, sweet reticence about her — we never should know what 
she is and what she does, except from the poor people them- 
selves, who would bless her in words if the very thought of 
her did not choke them with tears. Yet, I do assure you, 
she passes out of all this gloom, and makes sunlight in our 
house. We are never so cheerful as when she is at home. 
She always had the art of diffusing peace, but now it is 
positive cheerfulness. And about Leonard; I doubt if the 
wisest and most thoughtful schoolmaster could teach half as 
much directly, as his mother does unconsciously and in- 
directly every hour that he is with her. Her noble, humble, 
pious endurance of the consequences of what was wrong in 
her early life seems expressly fitted to act upon him, whose 
position is (unjustly, for he has done no harm) so similar to 
hers.” 

“ Well ! I suppose we must leave it alone for the present. 
You will think me a hard practical man when I own to you, 

4*5 


Ruth 

that all I expect from Leonard’s remaining a home-bird is 
that, with such a mother, it will do him no harm. At any 
rate, remember my offer is the same for a year — two years 
hence, as now. What does she look forward to making him 
into, finally ? ” 

“ I don’t know. The wonder comes into my mind some- 
times ; but never into hers, I think. It is part of her 
character — part perhaps of that which made her what she 
was — that she never looks forward, and seldom back. The 
present is enough for her.” 

And so the conversation ended. When Mr. Benson 
repeated the substance of it to his sister, she mused awhile, 
breaking out into an occasional whistle (although she had 
cured herself of this habit in a great measure), and at last 
she said — 

“ Now, do you know, I never liked poor Dick ; and yet 
I’m angry with Mr. Farquhar for getting him out of the 
partnership in such a summary way. I can’t get over it, 
even though he has offered to send Leonard to school. And 
here he’s reigning lord-paramount at the office ! As if you, 
Thurstan, weren’t as well able to teach him as any school- 
master in England ! But I should not mind that affront, if 
I were not sorry to think of Dick (though I never could 
abide him) labouring away in Glasgow for a petty salary of 
nobody knows how little, while Mr. Farquhar is taking 
halves, instead of thirds, of the profits here ! ” 

But her brother could not tell her — and even Jemima 
did not know till long afterwards — that the portion of income 
which would have been Dick’s as a junior partner, if he had 
remained in the business, was carefully laid aside for him by 
Mr. Farquhar ; to be delivered up, with all its accumulative 
interest, when the prodigal should have proved his penitence 
by his conduct. 

When Buth had no call upon her time, it was indeed a 
holiday at Chapel-house. She threw off as much as she 
could of the care and sadness in which she had been 
sharing; and returned fresh and helpful, ready to go about 

416 


The Bradshaw Pew again occupied 

in her soft, quiet way, and fill up every measure of service, 
and heap it with the fragrance of her own sweet nature. 
The delicate mending, that the elder women could no longer 
see to do, was put by for Ruth’s swift and nimble fingers. 
The occasional copying, or patient writing to dictation, that 
gave rest to Mr. Benson’s weary spine, was done by her 
with sunny alacrity. But, most of all, Leonard’s heart 
rejoiced when his mother came home. Then came the quiet 
confidences, the tender exchange of love, the happy walks 
from which he returned stronger and stronger — going from 
strength to strength as his mother led the way. It was well, 
as they saw now, that the great shock of the disclosure had 
taken place when it did. She, for her part, wondered at her 
own cowardliness in having even striven to keep back the 
truth from her child — the truth that was so certain to be 
. made clear, sooner or later, and which it was only owing to 
God’s mercy that she was alive to encounter with him, and, 
by so encountering, shield and give him good courage. 
Moreover, in her secret heart, she was thankful that all 
occurred while he was yet too young to have much curiosity 
as to his father. If an unsatisfied feeling of this kind 
occasionally stole into his mind, at any rate she never heard 
any expression of it ; for the past was a sealed book between 
them. And so, in the bright strength of good endeavour, 
the days went on, and grew again to months and years. 

Perhaps one little circumstance which occurred during 
this time had scarcely external importance enough to be 
called an event ; but in Mr. Benson’s mind it took rank as 
such. One day, about a year after Richard Bradshaw had 
ceased to be a partner in his father’s house, Mr. Benson 
encountered Mr. Farquhar in the street, and heard from 
him of the creditable and respectable manner in which 
Richard was conducting himself in Glasgow, where Mr. 
Farquhar had lately been on business. 

“ I am determined to tell his father of this,” said he ; 
“ I think his family are far too obedient to his tacit 
prohibition of all mention of Richard’s name.” 

4i7 


2 s 


Ruth 

“ Tacit prohibition ? ” inquired Mr. Benson. 

“ Oh ! I dare say I use the words in a wrong sense for 
the correctness of a scholar; but what I mean is, that he 
made a point of immediately leaving the room if Bichard’s 
name was mentioned; and did it in so marked a manner, 
that by degrees they understood that it was their father’s 
desire that he should never be alluded to ; which was all 
very well as long as there was nothing pleasant to be said 
about him ; but to-night I am going there, and shall take 
good care he does not escape me before I have told him all 
I have heard and observed about Bichard. He will never 
be a hero of virtue, for his education has drained him of 
all moral courage ; but with care, and the absence of all 
strong temptation for a time, he will do very well ; 
nothing to gratify paternal pride, but certainly nothing to 
be ashamed of.” 

It was on the Sunday after this that the little circumstance 
to which I have alluded took place. 

During the afternoon service, Mr. Benson became aware 
that the large Bradshaw pew was no longer unoccupied. 
In a dark corner Mr. Bradshaw’s white head was to be 
seen, bowed down low in prayer. When last he had 
worshipped there, the hair on that head was iron-grey, and 
even in prayer he had stood erect, with an air of conscious 
righteousness sufficient for all his wants, and even some to 
spare with which to judge others. Now, that white and 
hoary head was never uplifted ; part of his unobtrusiveness 
might, it is true, be attributed to the uncomfortable feeling 

which was sure to attend any open withdrawal of the 

declaration he had once made, never to enter the chapel in 
which Mr. Benson was minister again; and as such a 

feeling was natural to all men, and especially to such a 

one as Mr. Bradshaw, Mr. Benson instinctively respected it, 
and passed out of the chapel with his household, without 
ever directing his regards to the obscure place where Mr. 
Bradshaw still remained immovable. 

From this day Mr. Benson felt sure that the old friendly 
418 


A Mother to be Proud of 

feeling existed once more between them, although some 
time might elapse before any circumstance gave the signal 
for a renewal of their intercourse. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

A MOTHER TO BE PROUD OF 

Old people tell of certain years when typhus fever swept 
over the country like a pestilence ; years that bring back 
the remembrance of deep sorrow — refusing to be comforted 
— to many a household; and which those whose beloved 
passed through the fiery time unscathed, shrink from 
recalling: for great and tremulous was the anxiety — 
miserable the constant watching for evil symptoms ; and 
beyond the threshold of home a dense cloud of depression 
hung over society at large. It seemed as if the alarm was 
proportionate to the previous light-heartedness of fancied 
security — and indeed it was so ; for, since the days of King 
Belshazzar, the solemn decrees of Doom have ever seemed 
most terrible when they awe into silence the merry revellers 
of life. So it was this year to which I come in the progress 
of my story. 

The summer had been unusually gorgeous. Some had 
complained of the steaming heat, but others had pointed to 
the lush vegetation, which was profuse and luxuriant. The 
early autumn was wet and cold, but people did not regard 
it, in contemplation of some proud rejoicing of the nation, 
which filled every newspaper and gave food to every tongue. 
In Eccleston these rejoicings were greater than in most 
places; for, by the national triumph of arms, it was 
supposed that a new market for the staple manufacture of 
the place would be opened ; and so the trade, which had for 
a year or two been languishing, would now revive with 
redoubled vigour. Besides these legitimate causes of good 

419 


Ruth 

spirits, there was the rank excitement of a coming election, 
in consequence of Mr. Donne having accepted a Government 
office, procured for him by one of his influential relations. 
This time, the Cranworths roused themselves from their 
magnificent torpor of security in good season, and were 
going through a series of pompous and ponderous hospi- 
talities, in order to bring back the Eccleston voters to their 
allegiance. 

While the town was full of these subjects by turns — now 
thinking and speaking of the great revival of trade — now of 
the chances of the election, as yet some weeks distant — now 
of the balls at Cranworth Court, in which Mr. Cranworth 
Cranworth had danced with all the belles of the shopocracy 
of Eccleston — there came creeping, creeping, in hidden, slimy 
courses, the terrible fever — that fever which is never utterly 
banished from the sad haunts of vice and misery, but lives 
in such darkness, like a wild beast in the recesses of his den. 
It had begun in the low Irish lodging-houses ; but there 
it was so common it excited little attention. The poor 
creatures died almost without the attendance of the un- 
warned medical men, who received their first notice of the 
spreading plague from the Roman Catholic priests. 

Before the medical men of Eccleston had had time to 
meet together and consult, and compare the knowledge of 
the fever which they had severally gained, it had, like the 
blaze of a fire which had long smouldered, burst forth in 
many places at once — not merely among the loose-living 
and vicious, but among the decently poor — nay, even among 
the well-to-do and respectable. And, to add to the horror, 
like all similar pestilences, its course was most rapid at first, 
and was fatal in the great majority of cases — hopeless from 
the beginning. There was a cry, and then a deep silence, 
and then rose the long wail of the survivors. 

A portion of the Infirmary of the town was added to 
that already set apart for a fever- ward; the smitten were 
carried thither at once, whenever it was possible, in order 
to prevent the spread of infection ; and on that lazar- house 

420 


A Mother to be Proud of 

was concentrated all the medical skill and force of the 
place. 

But when one of the physicians had died, in consequence 
of his attendance — when the customary staff of matrons and 
nurses had been swept off in two days — and the nurses 
belonging to the Infirmary had shrunk from being drafted 
into the pestilental fever- ward — when high wages had failed 
to tempt any to what, in their panic, they considered as certain 
death — when the doctors stood aghast at the swift mortality 
among the untended sufferers, who were dependent only on 
the care of the most ignorant hirelings, too brutal to recog- 
nize the solemnity of Death (all this had happened within a 
week from the first acknowledgment of the presence of the 
plague) — Ruth came one day, with a quieter step than usual, 
into Mr. Benson’s study, and told him she wanted to speak 
to him for a few minutes. 

“ To be sure, my dear ! Sit down : ” said he ; for she 
was standing and leaning her head against the chimney- 
piece, idly gazing into the fire. She went on standing 
there, as if she had not heard his words ; and it was a few 
moments before she began to speak. Then she said — 

“ I want to tell you, that I have been this morning and 
offered myself as matron to the fever-ward while it is so 
full. They have accepted me; and I am going this 
evening.” 

“ Oh, Ruth ! I feared this ; I saw your look this morning 
as we spoke of this terrible illness.” 

“ Why do you say ‘ fear ’, Mr. Benson ? You yourself 
have been with John Harrison, and old Betty, and many 
others, I dare say, of whom we have not heard. 

“ But this is so different ! in such poisoned air ! among 
such malignant cases ! Have you thought and weighed it 
enough, Ruth ? ” 

She was quite still for a moment, but her eyes grew full 
of tears. At last she said, very softly, with a kind of still 
solemnity — 

“ Yes ! I have thought, and I have weighed. But through 
421 


Ruth 

the very midst of all my fears and thoughts I have felt that 
I must go.” 

The remembrance of Leonard was present in both their 
minds ; but for a few moments longer they neither of them 
spoke. Then Euth said — 

“ I believe I have no fear. That is a great preservative, 
they say. At any rate, if I have a little natural shrinking, it 
is quite gone when I remember that I am in God’s hands ! 
Oh, Mr. Benson,” continued she, breaking out into the 
irrepressible tears — “ Leonard, Leonard ! ” 

And now it was his turn to speak out the brave words of 
faith. 

“ Poor, poor mother ! ” said he. “ But be of good heart. 
He, too, is in God’s hands. Think what a flash of time 
only will separate you from him, if you should die in this 
work ! ” 

“ But he — but he — it will belong to him, Mr. Benson ! 
He will be alone ! ” 

“ No, Euth, he will not. God and all good men will 
watch over him. But if you cannot still this agony of fear 
as to what will become of him, you ought not to go. Such 
tremulous passion will predispose you to take the fever.” 

“ I will not be afraid^’ she replied, lifting up her face, 
over which a bright light shone, as of God’s radiance. “ I 
am not afraid for myself. I will not be so for my darling.” 

After a little pause, they began to arrange the manner of 
her going, and to speak about the length of time that she 
might be absent on her temporary duties. In talking of her 
return, they assumed it to be certain, although the exact 
time when was to them unknown, and would be dependent 
entirely on the duration of the fever; but not the less, in 
their secret hearts, did they feel where alone the issue lay. 
Euth was to communicate with Leonard and Miss Faith 
through Mr. Benson alone, who insisted on his determi- 
nation to go every evening to the hospital to learn the pro- 
ceedings of the day, and the state of Euth’s health. 

“ It is not alone on your account, my dear ! There may 
422 


A Mother to be Proud of 

be many sick people of whom, if I can give no other comfort, 
I can take intelligence to their friends.” 

All was settled with grave composure ; yet still Ruth 
lingered, as if nerving herself up for some effort. At length 
she said, with a faint smile upon her pale face — 

“ I believe I am a great coward. I stand here talking 
because I dread to tell Leonard.” 

“ You must not think of it,” exclaimed he. “ Leave it to 
me. It is sure to unnerve you.” 

“ I must think of it. I shall have self-control enough in 
a minute to do it calmly — to speak hopefully. For only 
think,” continued she, smiling through the tears that would 
gather in her eyes, “ what a comfort the remembrance of 

the last few words may be to the poor fellow, if” The 

words were choked, but she smiled bravely on. “ No ! ” 
said she, “ that must be done ; but perhaps you will spare 
me one thing — will you tell Aunt Faith? I suppose I am 
very weak, but, knowing that I must go, and not knowing 
what may be the end, I feel as if I could not bear to resist 
her entreaties just at last. Will you tell her, sir, while I go 
to Leonard ? ” 

Silently he consented, and the two rose up and came 
forth, calm and serene. And calmly and gently did Ruth 
tell her boy of her purpose; not daring even to use any 
unaccustomed tenderness of voice or gesture, lest, by so 
doing, she should alarm him unnecessarily as to the result. 
She spoke hopefully, and bade him be of good courage ; and 
he caught her bravery, though his, poor boy ! had root rather 
in his ignorance of the actual imminent danger than in her 
deep faith. 

When he had gone down, Ruth began to arrange her 
dress. When she came downstairs she went into the old 
familiar garden and gathered a nosegay of the last lingering 
autumn flowers — a few roses and the like. 

Mr. Benson had tutored his sister well ; and, although 
Miss Faith’s face was swollen with crying, she spoke with 
almost exaggerated cheerfulness to Ruth. Indeed, as they 

423 


Ruth 

all stood at the front door, making-believe to have careless 
nothings to say, just as at an ordinary leave-taking, you 
would not have guessed the strained chords of feeling there 
were in each heart. They lingered on, the last rays of the 
setting sun falling on the group. Ruth once or twice had 
roused herself to the pitch of saying “ Good-bye,” but when 
her eye fell on Leonard she was forced to hide the quivering 
of her lips, and conceal her trembling mouth amid the bunch 
of roses. 

“ They won’t let you have your flowers, I’m afraid,” said 
Miss Benson. “ Doctors so often object to the smell.” 

“ No ; perhaps not,” said Ruth hurriedly. “ I did not 
think of it. I will only keep this one rose. Here, Leonard 
darling ! ” She gave the rest to him. It was her farewell ; 
for having now no veil to hide her emotion, she summoned 
all her bravery for one parting smile, and, smiling, turned 
away. But she gave one look back from the street, just 
from the last point at which the door could be seen, and, 
catching a glimpse of Leonard standing foremost on the step, 
she ran back, and he met her half-way, and mother and 
child spoke never a word in that close embrace. 

“ Now, Leonard,” said Miss Faith, “be a brave boy. I 
feel sure she will come back to us before very long.” 

But she was very near crying herself ; and she would 
have given way, I believe, if she had not found the whole- 
some outlet of scolding Sally, for expressing just the same 
opinion respecting Ruth’s proceedings as she herself had 
done not two hours before. Taking what her brother had 
said to her as a text, she delivered such a lecture to Sally on 
want of faith that she was astonished at herself, and so 
much affected by what she had said that she had to shut the 
door of communication between the kitchen and the parlour 
pretty hastily, in order to prevent Sally’s threatened reply 
from weakening her belief in the righteousness of what 
Ruth had done. Her words had gone beyond her conviction. 

Evening after evening Mr. Benson went forth to gain 
news of Ruth ; and night after night he returned with good 

424 


A Mother to be Proud of 

tidings. The fever, it is true, raged ; but no plague came 
nigh her. He said her face was ever calm and bright, 
except when clouded by sorrow as she gave the accounts of 
the deaths which occurred in spite of every care. He said 
that he had never seen her face so fair and gentle as it was 
now, when she was living in the midst of disease and woe. 

One evening Leonard (for they had grown bolder as to 
the infection) accompanied him to the street on which the 
hospital abutted. Mr. Benson left him there, and told him 
to return home ; but the boy lingered, attracted by the 
crowd that had gathered, and were gazing up intently 
towards the lighted windows of the hospital. There was 
nothing beyond that to be seen ; but the greater part' of 
these poor people had friends or relations in that palace of 
Death. 

Leonard stood and listened. At first their talk consisted 
of vague and exaggerated accounts (if such could ’be ex- 
aggerated) of the horrors of the fever. Then they spoke of 
Buth — of his mother ; and Leonard held his breath to hear. 

“ They say she has been a great sinner, and that this is 
her penance,” quoth one. And as Leonard gasped, before 
rushing forward to give the speaker straight the he, an old 
man spoke — 

“ Such a one as her has never been a great sinner ; nor 
does she do her work as a penance, but for the love of God, 
and of the blessed Jesus. She will be in the light of God’s 
countenance when you and I will be standing afar off. I 
tell you, man, when my poor wench died, as no one would 
come near, her head lay at that hour on this woman’s sweet 
breast. I could fell you,” the old man went on, lifting his 
shaking arm, “ for calling that woman a great sinner. The 
blessing of them who were ready to perish is upon her.” 

Immediately there arose a clamour of tongues, each with 
some tale of his mother’s gentle doings, till Leonard grew 
dizzy with the beatings of his glad, proud heart. Pew were 
aware how much Ruth had done ; she never spoke of it, 
shrinking with sweet shyness from over-much allusion to 

425 


Ruth 

her own work at all times. Her left hand truly knew not 
what her right hand did; and Leonard was overwhelmed 
now to hear of the love and the reverence with which the 
poor and outcast had surrounded her. It was irrepressible. 
He stepped forward with a proud bearing, and, touching the 
old man’s arm who had first spoken, Leonard tried to speak ; 
but for an instant he could not, his heart was too full : tears 
came before words, but at length he managed to say — 

“ Sir, I am her son ! ” 

“Thou! thou her bairn! God bless you, lad,'’ said an 
old woman, pushing through the crowd. “ It was but last 
night she kept my child quiet with singing psalms the night 
through. Low and sweet, low and sweet, they tell me — till 
many poor things were hushed, though they were out of their 
minds, and had not heard psalms this many a year. God 
in heaven bless you, lad ! ” 

Many other wild, woe-begone creatures pressed forward 
with blessings on Euth’s son, while he could only repeat — 

“ She is my mother.” 

From that day forward Leonard walked erect in the 
streets of Eccleston, where “ many arose and called her 
blessed.” 

After some weeks the virulence of the fever abated ; and 
the general panic subsided — indeed, a kind of fool-hardiness 
succeeded. To be sure, in some instances the panic still 
held possession of individuals to an exaggerated extent. But 
the number of patients in the hospital was rapidly diminish- 
ing, and, for money, those were to be found who could supply 
Euth’s place. But to her it was owing that the overwrought 
fear of the town was subdued ; it was she who had gone 
voluntarily, and, with no thought of greed or gain, right into 
the very jaws of the fierce disease. She bade the inmates of 
the hospital farewell, and after carefully submitting herself to 
the purification recommended by Mr. Davis, the principal 
surgeon of the place, who had always attended Leonard, she 
returned to Mr. Benson’s just at gloaming time. 

They each vied with the other in the tenderest cares. 

426 


Nursing Mr. Bellingham 

They hastened tea ; they wheeled the sofa to the fire ; they 
made her lie down ; and to all she submitted with the docility 
of a child ; and, when the candles came, even Mr. Benson’s 
anxious eye could see no change in her looks, but that she 
seemed a little paler. The eyes were as full of spiritual light, 
the gently parted bps as rosy, and the smile, if more rare, 
yet as sweet as ever. 


CHAPTER XXXIY 

“ I MUST GO AND NURSE MR. BELLINGHAM ” 

The next morning Miss Benson would insist upon making 
Ruth lie down on the sofa. Ruth longed to do many things ; 
to be much more active ; but she submitted, when she found 
that it would gratify Miss Faith if she remained as quiet as 
if she were really an invalid. 

Leonard sat by her holding her hand. Every now and 
then he looked up from his book, as if to make sure that she 
indeed was restored to him. He had brought her down the 
flowers which she had given him the day of her departure, 
and which he had kept in water as long as they had any 
greenness or fragrance, and then had carefully dried and put 
by. She too, smiling, had produced the one rose which she 
had carried away to the hospital. Never had the bond 
between her and her boy been drawn so firm and strong. 

Many visitors came this day to the quiet Chapel-house. 
First of all Mrs. Farquhar appeared. She looked very 
different from the Jemima Bradshaw of three years ago. 
Happiness had called out beauty ; the colouring of her face 
was lovely, and vivid as that of an autumn day ; her berry 
red lips scarce closed over the short white teeth for her 
smiles ; and her large dark eyes glowed and sparkled with 

427 


Ruth 

daily happiness. They were softened by a mist of tears as 
she looked upon Euth 

“ Lie still ! Don’t move ! You must be content to-day 
to be waited upon, and nursed ! I have just seen Miss 
Benson in the lobby, and had charge upon charge not to 
fatigue you. Oh, Ruth ! how we all love you, now we have 
you back again ! Do you know, I taught Rosa to say her 
prayers as soon as ever you were gone to that horrid place, 
just on purpose that her little innocent bps might pray for 
you — I wish you could hear her say it — ‘ Please, dear God, 
keep Ruth safe.’ Oh, Leonard ! are not you proud of your 
mother ? ” 

Leonard said “ Yes,” rather shortly, as if he were annoyed 
that any one else should know, or even have a right to 
imagine, how proud he was. Jemima went on — 

“ Now, Ruth ! I have got a plan for you. Walter and I 
have partly made it ; and partly it’s papa’s doing. Yes, dear ! 
papa has been quite anxious to show his respect for you. 
We all want you to go to the dear Eagle’s Crag for this next 
month, and get strong, and have some change in that fine 
air at Abermouth. I am going to take little Rosa there. 
Papa has lent it to us. And the weather is often very 
beautiful in November.” 

“ Thank you very much. It is very tempting ; for I have 
been almost longing for some such change. I cannot tell all 
at once whether I can go ; but I will see about it, if you 
will let me leave it open a little.” 

“ Oh ! as long as you like, so that you will but go at 
last. And, Master Leonard ! you are to come too. Now, I 
know I have you on my side.” 

Ruth thought of the place. Her only reluctance arose 
from the remembrance of that one interview on the sands. 
That walk she could never go again; but how much re- 
mained ! How much that would be a charming balm and 
refreshment to her ! 

“ What happy evenings we shall have together ! Do you 
know, I think Mary and Elizabeth may perhaps come.” 

428 


Nursing Mr. Bellingham 

A bright gleam of sunshine came into the room. “ Look ! 
how bright and propitious for our plans. Dear Euth, it 
seems like an omen for the future ! ” 

Almost while she spoke, Miss Benson entered, bringing 
with her Mr. Grey, the rector of Eccleston. He was an 
elderly man, short, and stoutly built, with something very 
formal in his manner ; but any one might feel sure of his 
steady benevolence who noticed the expression of his face, 
and especially of the kindly black eyes that gleamed beneath 
his grey and shaggy eyebrows. Ruth had seen him at the 
hospital once or twice, and Mrs. Farquhar had met him 
pretty frequently in general society. 

“ Go and tell your uncle,” said Miss Benson to Leonard. 

“ Stop, my boy ! I have just met Mr. Benson in the 
street, and my errand now is to your mother. I should like 
you to remain and hear what it is ; and I am sure that my 
business will give these ladies,” — bowing to Miss Benson 
and Jemima — “ so much pleasure, that I need not apologise 
for entering upon it in their presence.” 

He pulled out his double eye-glass, saying, with a grave 
smile — 

“You ran away from us yesterday so quietly and cun- 
ningly, Mrs. Denbigh, that you were, perhaps, not aware 
that the Board was sitting at that very time, and trying to 
form a vote sufficiently expressive of our gratitude to you. 
As chairman, they requested me to present you with this 
letter, which I shall have the pleasure of reading.” 

With all due emphasis he read aloud a formal letter from 
the Secretary to the Infirmary, conveying a vote of thanks 
to Euth. 

The good rector did not spare her one word, from date to 
signature ; and then, folding the letter up, he gave it to 
Leonard, saying — 

“ There, sir ! when you are an old man, you may read 
that testimony to your mother’s noble conduct with pride 
and pleasure. For, indeed,” continued he, turning to Jemima, 
“ no word$ can express the relief it was to us. I speak of 

429 


Ruth 

the gentlemen composing the Board of the Infirmary. When 
Mrs. Denbigh came forward, the panic was at its height, and 
the alarm of course aggravated the disorder. The poor crea- 
tures died rapidly ; there was hardly time to remove the dead 
bodies before others were brought in to occupy the beds, so 
little help was to be procured on account of the universal 
terror ; and the morning when Mrs. Denbigh offered us her 
services we seemed at the very worst. I shall never forget 
the sensation of relief in my mind when she told us what she 
proposed to do ; but we thought it right to warn her to the 
full extent 

“ Nay, madam,” said he, catching a glimpse of Ruth’s 
changing colour, “ I will spare you any more praises. I will 
only say, if I can be a friend to you, or a friend to your child, 
you may command my poor powers to the utmost.” 

He got up, and, bowing formally, he took his leave. 
Jemima came and kissed Ruth. Leonard went upstairs to 
put the precious letter away. Miss Benson sat crying 
heartily in a corner of the room. Ruth went to her, and 
threw her arms round her neck, and said — 

“ I could not tell him just then. I durst not speak for 
fear of breaking down ; but if I have done right, it was all 
owing to you and Mr. Benson. Oh ! I wish I had said how 
the thought first came into my head from seeing the things 
Mr. Benson has done so quietly ever since the fever first 
came amongst us. I could not speak ; and it seemed as if I 
was taking those praises to myself, when all the time I was 
feeling how little I deserved them — how it was all owing to 
you.” 

“ Under God, Ruth,” said Miss Benson, speaking through 
her tears. 

“ Oh ! I think there is nothing humbles one so much as 
undue praise. While he was reading that letter, I could not 
help feeling how many things I have done wrong ! Could 
he know of — of what I have been ? ” asked she, dropping 
her voice very low. 

“ Yes ! ,r said Jemima, “ he knew — everybody in Eccleston 
43 ° 


Nursing Mr. Bellingham 

did know — but the remembrance of those days is swept 
away. Miss Benson,” she continued, for she was anxious to 
turn the subject, “ you must be on my side, and persuade 
Ruth to come to Abermouth for a few weeks. I want her 
and Leonard both to come.” 

“ I’m afraid my brother will think that Leonard is missing 
his lessons sadly. Just of late we could not wonder that the 
poor child’s heart was so full ; but he must make haste, and 
get on all the more for his idleness.” Miss Benson piqued 
herself on being a disciplinarian. 

“ Oh, as for lessons, Walter is so very anxious that you 
should give way to his superior wisdom, Ruth, and let 
Leonard go to school. He will send him to any school you 
fix upon, according to the mode of life you plan for him.” 

“ I have no plan,” said Ruth. “ I have no means of 
planning. All I can do is to try and make him ready for 
anything.” 

“ Well,” said Jemima, “ we must talk it over at Aber- 
mouth ; for I am sure you won’t refuse to come, dearest, 
dear Ruth ! Think of the quiet, sunny days, and the still 
evenings, that we shall have together, with little Rosa to 
tumble about among the fallen leaves ; and there’s Leonard 
to have his first sight of the sea.” 

“ I do think of it,” said Ruth, smiling at the happy picture 
Jemima drew. And both smiling at the hopeful prospect 
before them, they parted — never to meet again in life. 

No sooner had Mrs. Farquhar gone than Sally burst in. 

“ Oh ! dear, dear ! ” said she, looking around her. “ If I 
had but known that the rector was coming to call I’d ha’ 
put on the best covers, and the Sunday tablecloth ! You’re 
well enough,” continued she, surveying Ruth from head to 
foot ; “ you’re always trim and dainty in your gowns, though 
I reckon they cost but tuppence a yard, and you’ve a face to 
set ’em off ; but as for you ” (as she turned to Miss Benson), 

“ I think you might ha’ had something better on than that 
old stuff, if it had only been to do credit to a parishioner like 
me, whom he has known ever sin’ my father was his clerk.” 

43 1 


Ruth 

“You forget, Sally, I had been making jelly all the 
morning. How could I tell it was Mr. Grey when there 
was a knock at the door ? ” Miss Benson replied. 

“ You might ha’ letten me do the jelly ; I’se warrant I 
could ha’ pleased Ruth as well as you. If I had but known 
he was coming, I’d ha’ slipped round the comer and bought 
ye a neckribbon, or summut to lighten ye up. I’se loth he 
should think I’m living with Dissenters, that don’t know 
how to keep themselves trig and smart.” 

“ Never mind, Sally ; he never thought of me. What he 
came for, was to see Ruth ; and, as you say, she’s always 
neat and dainty.” 

“ Well ! I reckon it cannot be helped now ; but, if I buy 
ye a ribbon, will you promise to wear it when Church folks 
come ? for I cannot abide the way they have of scoffing at 
the Dissenters about their dress.” 

“ Very well ! we’ll make that bargain,” said Miss 
Benson ; “ and now, Ruth, I’ll go and fetch you a cup of 
warm jelly.” 

“ Oh ! indeed, Aunt Faith,” said Ruth, “ I am very sorry 
to balk you ; but if you’re going to treat me as an invalid, I 
am afraid I shall rebel.” 

But when she found that Aunt Faith’s heart was set 
upon it, she submitted very graciously : only dimpling up a 
little, as she found that she must consent to lie on the sofa, 
and be fed, when, in truth, she felt full of health, with a 
luxurious sensation of languor stealing over her now and 
then, just enough to make it very pleasant to think of the 
salt breezes, and the sea beauty which awaited her at 
Abermouth. 

Mr. Davis called in the afternoon, and his visit was also 
to Ruth. Mr. and Miss Benson were sitting with her in the 
parlour, and watching her with contented love, as she em- 
ployed herself in household sewing, and hopefully spoke 
about the Abermouth plan. 

“ Well ! so you had our worthy rector here to-day ; I 
am come on something of the same kind of errand ; only I 

432 


Nursing Mr. Bellingham 

shall spare you the reading of my letter, which, I’ll answer 
for it, he did not. Please to take notice,” said he, putting 
down a sealed letter, “ that I have delivered you a vote of 
thanks from my medical brothers ; and open and read it at 
your leisure ; only not just now, for I want to have a little 
talk with you on my own behoof. I want to ask you a 
favour, Mrs. Denbigh.” 

“ A favour ! ” exclaimed Euth ; “ what can I do for you ? 
I think I may say I will do it, without hearing what it is.” 

“Then you’re a very imprudent woman,” replied he; 
“ however, I’ll take you at your word. I want you to give 
me your boy.” 

“ Leonard ? ” 

“ Ay ! there it is, you see, Mr. Benson. One minute she 
is as ready as can be, and the next she looks at me as if I 
was an ogre ! ” 

“ Perhaps we don’t understand what you mean,” said 
Mr. Benson. 

“ The thing is this. You know I’ve no children ; and I 
can’t say I’ve ever fretted over it much ; but my wife has ; 
and whether it is that she has infected me, or that I grieve 
over my good practice going to a stranger, when I ought to 
have had a son to take it after me, I don’t know ; but, of 
late, I’ve got to look with covetous eyes on all healthy boys, 
and at last I’ve settled down my wishes on this Leonard of 
yours, Mrs. Denbigh.” 

Euth could not speak ; for, even yet, she did not under- 
stand what he meant. He went on — 

“ Now, how old is the lad ? ” He asked Euth, but Miss 
Benson replied — 

“ He’ll be twelve next February.’* 

“ Umph ! only twelve ! He’s tall and old-looking for his 
age. You look young enough, it is true.” He said this last 
sentence as if to himself, but seeing Euth crimson up, he 
abruptly changed his tone. 

“ Twelve, is he ? Well, I take him from now. I don’t 
mean that I really take him away from you,” said he, 

433 2 F 


Ruth 

softening all at once, and becoming grave and considerate. 
“ His being your son — the son of one whom I have seen — 
as I have seen you, Mrs. Denbigh (out and out the best 
nurse I ever met with, Miss Benson; and good nurses are 
things we doctors know how to value) — his being your son 
is his great recommendation to me; not but what the lad 
himself is a noble boy. I shall be glad to leave him with 
you as long and as much as we can ; he could not be tied to 
your apron-strings all his life, you know. Only I provide 
for his education, subject to your consent and good pleasure, 
and he is bound apprentice to me. I, his guardian, bind him 
to myself, the first surgeon in Eccleston, be the other who 
he may; and in process of time he becomes partner, and 
some day or other succeeds me. Now, Mrs. Denbigh, 
what have you got to say against this plan? My wife is 
just as full of it as me. Come ; begin with your objections. 
You’re not a woman if you have not a whole bag-full of them 
ready to turn out against any reasonable proposal.” 

“ I don’t know,” faltered Ruth. “ It is so sudden ” 

“It is very, very kind of you, Mr. Davis,” said Miss 
Benson, a little scandalised at Ruth’s non-expression of 
gratitude. 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! I’ll answer for it, in the long-run, I am 
taking good care of my own interests. Come, Mrs: Denbigh, 
is it a bargain ? ” 

Now Mr. Benson spoke. 

“ Mr. Davis, it is rather sudden, as she says. As far as I 
can see, it is the best as well as the kindest proposal that 
could have been made ; but I think we must give her a little 
time to think about it.” 

“ Well, twenty-four hours ! Will that do ? ” 

Ruth lifted up her head. “Mr. Davis, I am not 
ungrateful because I can’t thank you ” (she was crying while 
she spoke) ; “let me have a fortnight to consider about it. 
In a fortnight I will make up my mind. Oh, how good you 
all are ! ” 

“ Very well. Then this day fortnight— Thursday the 28th 
434 


Nursing Mr. Bellingham 

— you will let me know your decision. Mind ! if it’s against 
me, I sha’n’t consider it a decision, for I’m determined 
to carry my point. I’m not going to make Mrs. Denbigh 
blush, Mr. Benson, by telling you, in her presence, of all I 
have observed about her this last three weeks, that has made 
me sure of the good qualities I shall find in this boy of hers. 
I was watching her when she little thought of it. Do you 
remember that night when Hector O’Brien was so furiously 
delirious, Mrs. Denbigh ? ” 

Buth went very white at the remembrance. 

“ Why now, look there ! how pale she is at the very 
thought of it ! And yet, I assure you, she was the one to go 
up and take the piece of glass from him which he had broken 
out of the window for the sole purpose of cutting his throat, 
or the throat of any one else, for that matter. I wish we 
had some others as brave as she is.” 

“ I thought the great panic was passed away ! ” said Mr. 
Benson. 

“ Ay ! the general feeling of alarm is much weaker ; but, 
here and there, there are as great fools as ever. Why, when 
I leave here, I am going to see our precious member, Mr. 
Donne ” 

“ Mr. Donne ? ” said Ruth. 

“Mr. Donne, who lies ill at the Queen’s — came last 
week, with the intention of canvassing, but was too much 
alarmed by what he Beard of the fever to set to work ; and, 
in spite of all his precautions, he has taken it ; and you 
should see the terror they are in at the hotel ; landlord, 
landlady, waiters, servants — all ; there’s not a creature will 
go near him, if they can help it ; and there’s only his groom 
— a lad he saved from drowning, I’m told — to do anything 
for him. I must get him a proper nurse, somehow or some- 
where, for all my being a Cranworth man. Ah, Mr. Benson ! 
you don’t know the temptations we medical men have. 
Think, if I allowed your member to die now as he might 
vary well, if he had no nurse— how famously Mr. Cranworth 
would walk over the course ! — Where’s Mrs. Denbigh gone 

435 


Ruth 

to ? I hope I’ve not frightened her away by reminding her 
of Hector O’Brien, and that awful night, when I do assure 
you she behaved like a heroine ! ” 

As Mr. Benson was showing Mr. Davis out, Ruth opened 
the study-door, and said, in a very calm, low voice — • 

“ Mr. Benson ! will you allow me to speak to Mr. Davis 
alone ? ” 

Mr. Benson immediately consented, thinking that, in all 
probability, she wished to ask some further questions about 
Leonard ; but as Mr. Davis came into the room, and shut 
the door, he was struck by her pale, stern face of determina- 
tion, and awaited her speaking first. 

“ Mr. Davis ! I must go and nurse Mr. Bellingham,” 
said she at last, clenching her hands tight together, but no 
other part of her body moving from its intense stillness. 

“ Mr. Bellingham ? ” asked he, astonished at the name. 

“ Mr. Donne, I mean,” said she hurriedly. “ His name 
was Bellingham.” 

“ Oh ! I remember hearing he had changed his name 
for some property. But you must not think of any more 
such work just now. You are not fit for it. You are look- 
ing as white as ashes.” 

“ I must go,” she repeated. 

“ Nonsense ! Here’s a man who can pay for the care 
of the first hospital nurses in London — and I doubt if his life 
is worth the risk of one of theirs even, much more of yours.” 

“We have no right to weigh human lives against each 
other.” 

“ No,! I know we have not. But it’s a way we doctors 
are apt to get into ; and, at any rate, it’s ridiculous of you 
to think of such a thing. Just listen to reason.” 

“ I can’t ! I can’t ! ” cried she, with a sharp pain in her 
voice. “ You must let me go, dear Mr. Davis ! ” said she, 
now speaking with soft entreaty. 

“ No ! ” said he, shaking his head authoritatively. “ I’ll 
do no such thing.” 

“ Listen ! ” said she, dropping her voice, and going all 
436 


Nursing Mr. Bellingham 

over the deepest scarlet ; “ he is Leonard’s father ! Now ! 
you will let me go ! ” 

Mr. Davis was indeed staggered by what she said, and 
for a moment he did not speak. So she went on — 

“ You will not tell ! You must not tell ! No one knows, 
not even Mr. Benson, who it was. And now— it might do 
him so much harm to have it known. You will not tell ! ” 

“ No ! I will not tell,” replied he. “ But, Mrs. Denbigh, 
you must answer me this one question, which I ask you in 
all true respect, but which I must ask, in order to guide 
both myself and you aright — of course I knew Leonard was 
illegitimate— in fact, I will give you secret for secret ; it was 
being so myself that first made me sympathise with him, 
and desire to adopt him. I knew that much of your history ; 
but tell me, do you now care for this man ? Answer me 
truly — do you love him ? ” 

For a moment or two she did not speak ; her head was 
bent down ; then she raised it up, and looked with clear and 
honest eyes into his face. 

“ I have been thinking — but I do not know — I cannot 
tell — I don’t think I should love him, if he were well and 
happy — but you said he was ill — and alone — how can I help 
caring for him ? How can I help caring for him ? ” repeated 
she, covering her face with her hands, and the quick hot 
tears stealing through her fingers. “ He is Leonard’s 
father,” continued she, looking up at Mr. Davis suddenly. 
“ He need not know — he shall not— that I have ever been 
near him. If he is like the others, he must be delirious 
— I will leave him before he comes to himself — but now 
let me go — I must go.” 

“ I wish my tongue had been bitten out before I had 
named him to you. He would do well enough without 
you ; and, I dare say, if he recognises you, he will only be 
annoyed.” 

“ It is very likely,” said Ruth heavily. 

“ Annoyed — why ! he may curse you for your unasked- 
for care of him. I have heard my poor mother — and she 

437 


Ruth 

was as pretty and delicate a creature as you are — cursed for 
showing tenderness when it was not wanted. Now, be 
persuaded by an old man like me, who has seen enough of 
life to make his heart ache — leave this fine gentleman to his 
fate. I’ll promise you to get him as good a nurse as can be 
had for money.” 

“ No ! ” said Euth, with dull persistency — as if she had 
not attended to his dissuasions ; “I must go. I will leave 
him before he recognises me.” 

“ Why, then,” said the old surgeon, “ if you’re so bent 
upon it, I suppose I must let you. It is but what my 
mother would have done — poor, heart-broken thing ! How- 
ever, come along, and let us make the best of it. It saves 
me a deal of trouble, I know ; for, if I have you for a right 
hand, I need not worry myself continually with wondering 
how he is taken care of. Go get your bonnet, you tender- 
hearted fool of a woman ! Let us get you out of the house 
without any more scenes or explanations ; I’ll make all 
straight with the Bensons.” 

“You will not tell my secret, Mr. Davis,” she said 
abruptly. 

“ No ! not I ! Does the woman think I had never to 
keep a secret of the kind before ? I only hope he ? ll lose 
his election, and never come near the place again. After 
all,” continued he, sighing, “ I suppose it is but human 
nature ! ” He began recalling the circumstances of his own 
early life, and dreamily picturing scenes in the grey dying 
embers of the fire ; and he was almost startled when she 
stood before him, ready equipped, grave, pale, and quiet. 

“ Come along ! ” said he. “ If you’re to do any good at 
ail, it must be in these next three days. After that, I’ll 
ensure his life for this bout ; and mind ! I shall send you 
home then; for he might know you, and I’ll have no 
excitement to throw him back again, and no sobbing and 
crying from you. But now every moment your care is 
precious to him. I shall tell my own story to the Bensons, 
as soon as I have installed you.” 

438 


Nursing Mr. Bellingham 

Mr. Donne lay in the best room of the Queen’s Hotel- 
no one with him but his faithful, ignorant servant, who was 
as much afraid of the fever as any one else could be, but 
who, nevertheless, would not leave his master — his master 
who had saved his life as a child, and afterwards put him in 
the stables at Bellingham Hall, where he learnt all that he 
knew. He stood in a farther corner of the room, watching 
his delirious master with affrighted eyes, not daring to come 
near him, nor yet willing to leave him. 

“ Oh ! if that doctor would but come ! He’ll kill him- 
self or me — and them stupid servants won’t stir a step over 
the threshold ; how shall I get over the night ? Blessings 
on him — here’s the old doctor back again ! I hear him 
creaking and scolding up the stairs ! ” 

The door opened, and Mr. Davis entered, followed by 
Euth. 

“ Here’s the nurse, my good man — such a nurse as there 
is not in the three counties. Now, all you’ll have to do is to 
mind what she says.” 

“ Oh, sir ! he’s mortal bad ! won’t you stay with us 
through the night, sir ? ” 

“ Look here ! ” whispered Mr. Davis to the man, “ see 
how she knows how to manage him ! Why, I could not 
do it better myself ! ” 

She had gone up to the wild, raging figure, and with soft 
authority had made him lie down : and then, placing a basin 
of cold water by the bedside, she had dipped in it her pretty 
hands, and was laying their cool dampness on his hot brow, 
speaking in a low soothing voice all the time, in a way that 
acted like a charm in hushing his mad talk. 

“ But I will stay,” said the doctor, after he had examined 
his patient ; “as much on her account as his, and partly to 
quieten the fears of this poor, faithful fellow.” 


439 


Ruth 


CHAPTEK XXXV 

OUT OF DARKNESS INTO LIGHT 

The third night after this was to be the crisis — the turning- 
point between Life and Death. Mr. Davis came again to 
pass it by the bedside of the sufferer. Ruth was there, 
constant and still, intent upon watching the symptoms, and 
acting according to them, in obedience to Mr. Davis’s direc- 
tions. She had never left the room. Every sense had been 
strained in watching — every power of thought or judgment 
had been kept on the full stretch. Now that Mr. Davis 
came and took her place, and that the room was quiet for the 
night, she became oppressed with heaviness, which yet did 
not tend to sleep. She could not remember the present time, 
or where she was. All times of her earliest youth — the days 
of her childhood — were in her memory with a minuteness 
and fulness of detail which was miserable ; for all along she 
felt that she had no real grasp on the scenes that were 
passing through her mind — that, somehow, they were long 
gone by, and gone by for ever — and yet she could not re- 
member who she was now, nor where she was, and whether 
she had now any interests in life to take the place of those 
which she was conscious had passed away, although their 
remembrance filled her mind with painful acuteness. Her 
head lay on her arms, and they rested on the table. Every 
now and then she opened her eyes, and saw the large room, 
handsomely furnished with articles that were each one 
incongruous with the other, as if bought at sales. She saw 
the flickering night-light — she heard the ticking of the watch, 
and the two breathings, each going on at a separate rate — 
one hurried, abruptly stopping, and then panting violently, 
as if to make up for lost time ; and the other slow, steady, 
and regular, as if the breather was asleep ; but this supposi- 
tion was contradicted by an occasional repressed sound of 

440 


Out of Darkness into Light 

yawning. The sky through the uncurtained window looked 
dark and black — would this night never have an end ? Had 
the sun gone down for ever, and would the 'world at last 
awaken to a general sense of everlasting night ? 

Then she felt as if she ought to get up, and go and see 
how the troubled sleeper in yonder bed was struggling 
through his illness ; but she could not remember who the 
sleeper was, and she shrunk from seeing some phantom-face 
on the pillow, such as now began to haunt the dark corners 
of the room, and look at her, jibbering and mowing as they 
looked. So she covered her face again, and sank into a 
whirling stupor of sense and feeling. By-and-by she heard 
her fellow- watcher stirring, and a dull wonder stole over her 
as to what he was doing ; but the heavy languor pressed her 
down, and kept her still. At last she heard the words, 
“ Come here,” and listlessly obeyed the command. She had 
to steady herself in the rocking chamber before she could 
walk to the bed by which Mr. Davis stood ; but the effort to 
do so roused her, and, though conscious of an oppressive 
headache, she viewed with sudden and clear vision all the 
circumstances of her present position. Mr. Davis was near, 
the head of the bed, holding the night-lamp high, and shading 
it with his hand, that it might not disturb the sick person, 
who lay with his face towards them, in feeble exhaustion, 
but with every sign that the violence of the fever had left 
him. It so happened that the rays of the lamp fell bright 
and full upon Ruth’s countenance, as she stood with her 
crimson lips parted with the hurrying breath, and the fever- 
flush brilliant on her cheeks. Her eyes were wide open, and 
their pupils distended. She looked on the invalid in silence, 
and hardly understood why Mr. Davis had summoned her 
there. 

“ Don’t you see the change? He is better! — the crisis 
is past ! ” 

But she did not speak : her looks were riveted on his 
softly-unclosing eyes, which met hers as .they opened lan- 
guidly. She could not stir or speak. She was held fast by 

44 1 


Ruth 

that gaze of his, in which a faint recognition dawned, and 
grew to strength. 

He murmured some words. They strained their sense to 
hear. He repeated them even lower than before ; but this 
time they caught what he was saying. 

“ Where are the water-lilies ? Where are the lilies in 
her hair ? ” 

Mr. Davis drew Ruth away. 

“ He is still rambling,” said he. “ But the fever has left 
him.” 

The grey dawn was now filling the room with its cold 
light ; was it that made Ruth’s cheek so deadly pale ? Could 
that call out the wild entreaty of her look, as if imploring 
help against some cruel foe that held her fast, and was 
wrestling with her Spirit of Life ? She held Mr. Davis’s 
arm. If she had let it go, she would have fallen. 

“ Take me home,” she said, and fainted dead away. 

Mr. Davis carried her out of the chamber, and sent the 
groom to keep watch by his master. He ordered a fly to 
convey her to Mr. Benson’s, and lifted her in when it came, 
for she was still half unconscious. It was he who carried 
her upstairs to her room, where Miss Benson and Sally 
undressed and laid her in her bed. 

He awaited their proceedings in Mr. Benson’s study. 
When Mr. Benson came in, Mr. Davis said — 

“ Don’t blame me. Don’t add to my self-reproach. I 
have killed her. I was a cruel fool to let her go. Don’t 
speak to me.” 

“ It may not be so bad,” said Mr. Benson, himself 
needing comfort in that shock. “ She may recover. She 
surely will recover. I believe she will.” 

“ No, no ! she won’t. But by she shall, if I can 

save her.” Mr. Davis looked defiantly at Mr. Benson, as if 
he were Fate. “ I tell you she shall recover, or else I am a 
murderer. What business had I to take her to nurse him ’ ’ 

He was cut short by Sally’s entrance and announcement, 
that Ruth was now prepared to see him. 

442 


Out of Darkness into Light 

From that time forward Mr. Davis devoted all his leisure, 
his skill, his energy, to save her. He called on the rival 
surgeon, to beg him to undertake the management of Mr. 
Donne’s recovery, saying, with his usual self-mockery, “I 
could not answer it to Mr. Cranworth if I had brought his 
opponent round, you know, when I had had such a fine 
opportunity in my power. Now, with your patients, and 
general Radical interest, it will be rather a feather in your 
cap ; for he may want a good deal of care yet, though he is 
getting on famously — so rapidly, in fact, that it’s a strong 
temptation to me to throw him back — a relapse, you 
know.” 

The other surgeon bowed gravely, apparently taking Mr. 
Davis in earnest, but certainly very glad of the job thus 
opportunely thrown in his way. In spite of Mr. Davis’s 
real and deep anxiety about Ruth, he could not help chuck- 
ling over his rival’s literal interpretation of all he had said. 

“ To be sure, what fools men are ! I don’t know why one 
should watch and strive to keep them in the world. I have 
given this fellow something to talk about confidently to all 
his patients ; I wonder how much stronger a dose the man 
would have swallowed! I must begin to take care of my 
practice for that lad yonder. Well-a-day ! well-a-day ! 
What was this sick fine gentleman sent here for, that she 
should run a chance of her life for him ? or why was he sent 
into the world at all, for that matter ? ” 

Indeed, however much Mr. Davis might labour with all 
his professional skill — however much they might all watch — 
and pray — and weep — it was but too evident that Ruth 
“ home must go, and take her wages.” Poor, poor Ruth ! 

It might be that, utterly exhausted by watching and 
nursing, first in the hospital, and then by the bedside of her 
former lover, the power of her constitution was worn out ; or, 
it might be, her gentle, pliant sweetness, but she displayed 
no outrage or discord even in her delirium. There she lay in 
the attic-room in which her baby had been born, her watch 
over him kept, her confession to him made ; and now she 

443 


Ruth 

was stretched on the bed in utter helplessness, softly gazing 
at vacancy with her open, unconscious eyes, from which all 
the depth of their meaning had fled, and all they told of was 
of a sweet, child-like insanity within. The watchers could 
not touch her with their sympathy, or come near her in her 
dim world ; — so, mutely, but looking at each other from time 
to time with tearful eyes, they took a poor comfort from the 
one evident fact that, though lost and gone astray, she was 
happy and at peace. They had never heard her sing ; 
indeed, the simple art which her mother had taught her, had 
died, with her early joyousness, at that dear mother’s death. 
But now she sang continually, very slow, and low. She 
went from one old childish ditty to another without let or 
pause, keeping a strange sort of time with her pretty fingers, 
as they closed and unclosed themselves upon the counter- 
pane. She never looked at any one with the slightest 
glimpse of memory or intelligence in her face ; no, not even 
Leonard. 

Her strength faded day by day; but she knew it not. 
Her sweet lips were parted to sing, even after the breath and 
the power to do so had left her, and her fingers fell idly on 
the bed. Two days she lingered thus — all but gone from 
them, and yet still there. 

They stood around her bedside, not speaking, or sighing, 
or moaning; they were too much awed by the exquisite 
peacefulness of her look for that. Suddenly she opened wide 
her eyes, and gazed intently forwards, as if she saw some 
happy vision, which called out a lovely, rapturous, breath- 
less smile. They held their very breaths. 

“ I see the Light coming,” said she. “ The Light is 
coming,” she said. And, raising herself slowly, she stretched 
out her arms, and then fell back, very still for evermore. 

They did not speak. Mr. Davis was the first to utter a 
word. 

“ It is over ! ” said he. “ She is dead ! ” 

Out rang through the room the cry of Leonard — 

“ Mother ! mother ! mother ! You have not left 
444 


me 


The End 

alone ! You will not leave me alone ! You are not dead ! 
Mother ! Mother ! ” 

They had pent in his agony of apprehension till then, 
that no wail of her child might disturb her ineffable calm. 
But now there was a cry heard through the house, of one 
refusing to be comforted : “ Mother ! Mother ! ” 

But Ruth lay dead. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 

THE END 

A stupor of grief succeeded to Leonard’s passionate cries. 
He became so much depressed, physically as well as mentally, 
before the end of the day, that Mr. Davis was seriously 
alarmed for the consequences. He hailed with gladness a 
proposal made by the Farquhars, that the boy should be 
removed to their house, and placed under the fond care of 
his mother’s friend, who sent her own child to Abermouth 
the better to devote herself to Leonard. 

When they told him of this arrangement, he at first 
refused to go and leave her : but when Mr. Benson said — 

“ She would have wished it, Leonard ! Do it for her 
sake ! ” he went away very quietly ; not speaking a word, 
after Mr. Benson had made the voluntary promise that he 
should see her once again. He neither spoke nor cried for 
many hours ; and all Jemima’s delicate wiles were called 
forth, before his heavy heart could find the relief of tears. 
And then he was so weak, and his pulse so low, that all 
who loved him feared for his life. 

Anxiety about him made a sad distraction from the 
sorrow for the dead. The three old people, who now formed 
the household in the Chapel-house, went about slowly and 

445 


Ruth 

dreamily, each with a dull wonder at their hearts why they, 
the infirm and worn-out, were left, while she was taken in 
her lovely prime. 

The third day after Euth’s death, a gentleman came to 
the door and asked to speak to Mr. Benson. He was very 
much wrapped up in furs and cloaks, and the upper, exposed 
part of his face was sunk and hollow, like that of one but 
partially recoved from illness. Mr. and Miss Benson were 
at Mr. Farquhar’s, gone to see Leonard, and poor old Sally 
had been having a hearty cry over the kitchen fire before 
answering the door-knock. Her heart was tenderly inclined, 
just then, towards any one who had the aspect of suffering : 
so, although her master was out, and she was usually chary 
of admitting strangers, she proposed to Mr. Donne (for it 
was he), that he should come in and await Mr. Benson’s 
return in the study. He was glad enough to avail himself 
of her offer ; for he was feeble and nervous, and come on a 
piece of business which he exceedingly disliked, and about 
which he felt very awkward, The fire was nearly, if not 
quite, out ; nor did Sally’s vigorous blows do much good, 
although she left the room with an assurance that it would 
soon burn up. He leant against the chimney-piece, thinking 
over events, and with a sensation of discomfort, both external 
and internal, growing and gathering upon him. He almost 
wondered whether the proposal he meant to make with 
regard to Leonard could not be better arranged by letter 
than by an interview. He became very shivery, and 
impatient of the state of indecision to which his bodily 
weakness had reduced him. 

Sally opened the door and came in. “ Would you like 
to walk upstairs, sir ? ” asked she in a trembling voice, for 
she had learnt who the visitor was from the driver of the 
fly, who had run up to the house to inquire what was 
detaining the gentleman that he had brought from the 
Queen’s Hotel; and, knowing that Euth had caught the 
fatal fever from her attendance on Mr. Donne, Sally 
imagined that it was but a piece of sad civility to invite 

446 


The End 

him upstairs to see the poor dead body, which she had laid 
out and decked for the grave, with such fond care that she 
had grown strangely proud of its marble beauty. 

Mr. Donne was glad enough of any proposal of a change 
from the cold and comfortless room where he had thought 
uneasy, remorseful thoughts. He fancied that a change of 
place would banish the train of reflection that was troubling 
him ; but the change he anticipated was * to a well-warmed, 
cheerful sitting-room, with signs of life, and a bright fire 
therein, and he was on the last flight of stairs — at the door 
of the room where Buth lay — before he understood whither 
Sally was conducting him. He shrank back for an instant, 
and then a strange sting of curiosity impelled him on. He 
stood in the humble low-roofed attic, the window open, and 
the tops of the distant snow-covered hills filling up the 
whiteness of the general aspect. He muffled himself up in 
his cloak, and shuddered, while Sally reverently drew down 
the sheet, and showed the beautiful, calm, still face, on 
which the last rapturous smile still fingered, giving an 
ineffable look of bright serenity. Her arms were crossed 
over her breast ; the wimple-like cap marked the perfect 
oval of her face, while two braids of the waving auburn 
hair peeped out of the narrow border, and lay on the 
delicate cheeks. 

He was awed into admiration by the wonderful beauty 
of that dead woman. 

“ How beautiful she is ! ” said he, beneath his breath. 
“ Do all dead people look so peaceful — so happy ? ” 

“Not all,” replied Sally, crying. “ Few has been as 
good and as gentle as she was in their fives.” She quite 
shook with her sobbing. 

Mr. Donne was disturbed by her distress. 

“ Come, my good woman ! we must all die ” he did 

not know what to say, and was becoming infected by her 
sorrow. “ I am sure you loved her very much, and were 
very kind to her in her lifetime ; you must take this from 
me to buy yourself some remembrance of her.” He had 

447 


Ruth 

pulled out a sovereign, and really had a kindly desire to 
console her, and reward her, in offering it to her. 

But she took her apron from her eyes, as soon as she 
became aware of what he was doing, and, still holding it 
midway in her hands, she looked at him indignantly, before 
she burst out — 

“ And who are you, that think to pay for my kindness to 
her by money ? And I was not kind to you, my darling,” 
said she, passionately addressing the motionless, serene 
body — “ I was not kind to you. I frabbed you, and plagued 
you from the first, my lamb ! I came and cut off your 
pretty locks in this very room — I did — and you said never 
an angry word to me ; — no ! not then, nor many a time 
after, when I was very sharp and cross to you. — No ! I 
never was kind to you, and I dunnot think the world was 
kind to you, my darling, — but you are gone where the 
angels are very tender to such as you — you are, my poor 
wench ! ” She bent down and kissed the lips, from whose 
marble, unyielding touch Mr. Donne recoiled, even in 
thought. 

Just then Mr. Benson entered the room. He had 
returned home before his sister, and came upstairs in search 
of Sally, to whom he wanted to speak on some subject 
relating to the funeral. He bowed in recognition of Mr. 
Donne, whom he knew as the member for the town, and 
whose presence impressed him painfully, as his illness had 
been the proximate cause of Buth’s death. But he tried 
to check this feeling, as it was no fault of Mr. Donne’s. 
Sally stole out of the room, to cry at leisure in her kitchen. 

“ I must apologise for being here,” said Mr. Donne. “ I 
was hardly conscious where your servant was leading me 
to, when she expressed her wish that I should walk upstairs.” 

“It is a very common idea in this town, that it is a 
gratification to be asked to take a last look at the dead,” 
replied Mr. Benson. 

“And in this case I am glad to have seen her once 
more,” said Mr. Donne. “ Poor Buth ! ” 

448 


The End 

Mr. Benson glanced up at him at the last word. How 
did he know her name ? To him she had only been Mrs. 
Denbigh. But Mr. Donne had no idea that he was talking 
to one unaware of the connection that had formerly existed 
between them ; and, though he would have preferred carry- 
ing on the conversation in a warmer room, yet, as Mr. 
Benson was still gazing at her with sad, lingering love, he 
went on — 

“ I did not recognise her when she came to nurse me ; 
I believe I was delirious. My servant, who had known her 
long ago in Fordham, told me who she was. I cannot tell 
you how I regret that she should have died in consequence 
of her love of me.” 

Mr. Benson looked up at him again, a stern light filling 
his eyes as he did so. He waited impatiently to hear more, 
either to quench or confirm his suspicions. If she had not 
been lying there, very still and calm, he would have forced 
the words out of Mr. Donne, by some abrupt question. As 
it was, he listened silently, his heart quick beating. 

“ I know that money is but a poor compensation — is no 
remedy for this event, or for my youthful folly.” 

Mr. Benson set his teeth hard together, to keep in words 
little short of a curse. 

“ Indeed, I offered her money to almost any amount 
before : — do me justice, sir,” catching the gleam of indignation 
on Mr. Benson’s face ; “ I offered to marry her, and provide 
for the boy as if he had been legitimate. It’s of no use 
recurring to that time,” said he, his voice faltering ; “ what 
is done cannot be undone. But I came now to say, that I 
should be glad to leave the boy still under your charge, and 
that every expense you think it right to incur in his education 
I will gladly defray ; — and place a sum of money in trust for 
him — say, two thousand pounds — or more : fix what you 
will. Of course, if you decline retaining him, I must find 
some one else ; but the provision for him shall be the same, 
for my poor Buth’s sake.” 

Mr. Benson did not speak. He could not, till he had 
449 2 G 


Ruth 

gathered some peace from looking at the ineffable repose of 
the Dead. 

Then, before he answered, he covered up her face ; and 
in his voice there was the stillness of ice. 

“ Leonard is not unprovided for. Those that honoured 
his mother will take care of him. He shall never touch a 
penny of your money. Every offer of service you have made, 
I reject in his name, and in her presence,” said he, bending 
towards the Dead. “ Men may call such actions as yours 
youthful follies ! There is another name for them with God. 
Sir! I will follow you downstairs.” 

All the way down, Mr. Benson heard Mr. Donne’s voice 
urging and entreating, but the words he could not recognise 
for the thoughts that filled his brain — the rapid putting 
together of events that was going on there. And when Mr. 
Donne turned at the door, to speak again, and repeat his 
offers of service to Leonard, Mr. Benson made answer, 
without well knowing whether the answer fitted the question 
or not — 

“ I thank God, you have no right, legal or otherwise, over 
the child. And for her sake, I will spare him the shame of 
ever hearing your name as his father.” 

He shut the door in Mr. Donne’s face. 

“ An ill-bred, puritanical old fellow ! He may have the 
boy, I am sure, for aught I care. I have done my duty, and 
will get out of this abominable place as soon as I can. I 
wish my last remembrance of my beautiful Buth was not 
mixed up with all these people.” 

Mr. Benson was bitterly oppressed with this interview ; 
it disturbed the peace with which he was beginning to con- 
template events. His anger ruffled him, although such anger 
had been just, and such indignation well deserved ; and both 
had been unconsciously present in his heart for years against 
the unknown seducer, whom he met face to face by the 
death-bed of Buth. 

It gave him a shock which he did not recover from for 
many days. He was nervously afraid lest Mr. Donne should 

45o 


The End 

appear at the funeral ; and not all the reasons he alleged to 
himself against this apprehension, put it utterly away from 
him. Before then, however, he heard casually (for he would 
allow himself no inquiries) that he had left the town. No ! 
Buth’s funeral passed over in calm and simple solemnity. 
Her child, her own household, her friend and Mr. Farquhar, 
quietly walked after the bier, which was borne by some of 
the poor to whom she had been very kind in her lifetime, 
And many others stood aloof in the little burying- ground, 
sadly watching that last ceremony. 

They slowly dispersed ; Mr. Benson leading Leonard by 
the hand, and secretly wondering at his self-restraint. 

Mr. Benson was anxious, according to Dissenting custom, 
to preach an appropriate funeral sermon. It was the last 
office he could render to her; it should be done well and 
carefully. Moreover, it was possible that the circumstances 
of her life, which were known to all, might be made effective 
in this manner to work conviction of many truths. Ac- 
cordingly, he made great preparation of thought and paper ; 
he laboured hard, destroying sheet after sheet — his eyes 
filling with tears between-whiles, as he remembered some 
fresh proof of the humility and sweetness of her life. Oh, 
that he could do her justice ! but words seemed hard and 
inflexible, and refused to fit themselves to his ideas. He sat 
late on Saturday, writing ; he watched through the night till 
Sunday morning was far advanced. He had never taken 
such pains with any sermon, and he was only half satisfied 
with it after all. 

Mrs. Farquhar had comforted the bitterness of Sally’s 
grief by giving her very handsome mourning. At any rate, 
she felt oddly proud and exulting when she thought of her 
new black gown ; but, when she remembered why she wore 
it, she scolded herself pretty sharply for her satisfaction, and 
took to crying afresh with redoubled vigour. She spent the 
Sunday morning in alternately smoothing down her skirts, 
and adjusting her broad hemmed collar, or bemoaning the 
occasion with tearful earnestness. But the sorrow overcame 

45 * 


Ruth 

the little quaint vanity of her heart, as she saw troop after 
troop of humbly-dressed mourners pass by into the old 
chapel. They were very poor — but each had mounted some 
rusty piece of crape, or some faded black ribbon. The old 
came halting and slow — the mothers carried their quiet, 
awe-struck babes. 

And not only these were there— but others — equally 
unaccustomed to nonconformist worship ; Mr. Davis, for 
instance, to whom Sally acted as chaperone ; for he sat in 
the minister’s pew, as a stranger ; and, as she afterwards said, 
she had a fellow-feeling with him, being a Church- woman 
herself, and Dissenters had such awkward ways ; however, 
she had been there before, so she could set him to rights 
about their fashions. 

From the pulpit, Mr. Benson saw one and all — the well- 
filled Bradshaw pew — all in deep mourning, Mr. Bradshaw 
conspicuously so (he would have attended the funeral gladly 
if they would have asked him) — the Farquhars — the many 
strangers — the still more numerous poor — one or two wild- 
looking outcasts who stood afar off, but wept silently and 
continually. Mr. Benson’s heart grew very full. 

His voice trembled as he read and prayed. But he 
steadied it as he opened his sermon — his great, last effort in 
her honour — the labour that he had prayed God to bless to 
the hearts of many. For an instant the old man looked on 
all the upturned faces, listening, with wet eyes, to hear what 
he could say to interpret that which was in their hearts, 
dumb and unshaped, of God’s doings, as shown in her life. 
He looked, and, as he gazed, a mist came before him, and he 
could not see his sermon, nor his hearers, but only Ruth, as 
she had been — stricken low, and crouching from sight in the 
upland field by^ Llan-dhu — like a woeful, hunted creature. 
And now her life was over ! her struggle ended ! Sermon 
and all was forgotten. He sat down, and hid his face in his 
hands for a minute or so. Then he arose, pale and serene. 
He put the sermon away, and opened the Bible, and read the 
seventh chapter of Revelations, beginning at the ninth verse. 

45 2 


The End 

Before it was finished, most of his hearers were in tears. 
It came home to them as more appropriate than any sermon 
could have been. Even Sally, though full of anxiety as to 
what her fellow-Churchman would think of such proceedings, 
let the sobs come freely as she heard the words — 

“ And he said to me, These are they which came out of 
great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made 
them white in the blood of the Lamb. 

“ Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve 
him day and night in his temple ; and he that sitteth on the 
throne shall dwell among them. 

“ They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more ; 
neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. 

“ For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall 
feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of 
waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.” 


“ He preaches sermons sometimes,” said Sally, nudging 
Mr. Davis, as they rose from their knees at last. “ I make 
no doubt there was as grand a sermon in yon paper-book as 
ever we hear in church. I’ve heard him pray uncommon 
fine — quite beyond any but learned folk.” 

Mr. Bradshaw had been anxious to do something to 
testify his respect for the woman, who, if all had entertained 
his opinions, would have been driven into hopeless sin. 
Accordingly, he ordered the first stonemason of the town to 
meet him in the chapel-yard on Monday morning, to take 
measurement and receive directions for a tombstone. They 
threaded their way among the grassy heaps to where Buth 
was buried, in the south comer, beneath the great Wych-elm. 
When they got there, Leonard raised himself up from the 
new-stirred turf. His face was swollen with weeping ; but, 
when he saw Mr. Bradshaw, he calmed himself, and checked 
his sobs, and, as an explanation of being where he was when 
thus surprised, he could find nothing to say but the simple 
words — 


453 


Ruth 

“ My mother is dead, sir.” 

His eyes sought those of Mr. Bradshaw with a wild look 
of agony, as if to find comfort for that great loss in human 
sympathy ; and at the first word — the first touch of Mr. 
Bradshaw’s hand on his shoulder — he burst out afresh. 

“ Come, come ! my boy ! — Mr. Francis, I will see you 
about this to-morrow — I will call at your house. — Let me 
take you home, my poor fellow. Come, my lad, come ! ” 

The first time, for years, that he had entered Mr. Benson’s 
house, he came leading and comforting her son — and, for a 
moment, he could not speak to his old friend, for the sympathy 
wh^ch choked up his voice, and filled his eyes with tears. 


454 


CUMBERLAND SHEEP- 
SHEARERS 


Three or four years ago we spent part of a summer in one 
of the dales in the neighbourhood of Keswick. We lodged 
at the house of a small Statesman, who added to his occupa- 
tion of a sheep-farmer that of a woollen manufacturer. His 
own flock was not large, but he bought up other people’s 
fleeces, either on commission, or for his own purposes ; and 
his life seemed to unite many pleasant and various modes of 
employment, and the great jolly, burly man throve upon all, 
both in body and mind. 

One day, his handsome wife proposed to us that we 
should accompany her to a distant sheep-shearing, to be 
held at the house of one of her husband’s customers, where 
she was sure we should be heartily welcome, and where we 
should see an old-fashioned shearing, such as was not often 
met with now in the Dales. I don’t know why it was, but 
we were lazy, and declined her invitation. It might be that 
the day was a broiling one, even for July, or it might be a 
fit of shyness ; but-, whichever was the reason, it very un- 
accountably vanished soon after she was gone, and the 
opportunity seemed to have slipped through our fingers. 
The day was hotter than ever ; and we should have twice 
as much reason to be shy and self-conscious, now that we 
should not have our hostess to introduce and chaperone us. 
However, so great was our wish to go, that we blew these 
obstacles to the winds, if there were any that day; and, 
obtaining the requisite directions from the farm- servant, we 

455 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

set out on our five-mile walk, about one o’clock on a cloud- 
less day in the first half of July. 

Our party consisted of two grown-up persons and four 
children, the youngest almost a baby, who had to be carried 
the greater part of that weary length of way. We passed 
through Keswick, and saw the groups of sketching, boating 
tourists, on whom we, as residents for a month in the 
neighbourhood, looked down with some contempt as mere 
strangers, who were sure to go about blundering, or losing 
their way, or being imposed upon by guides, or admiring the 
wrong things, and never seeing the right things. After we 
had dragged ourselves through the long straggling town, we 
came to a part of the highway where it wound between 
copses sufficiently high to make a “ green thought in a green 
shade : ” the branches touched and interlaced overhead, while 
the road was so straight, that all the quarter-of-an-hour that 
we were walking we could see the opening of blue light at 
the other end, and note the quivering of the heated, luminous 
air beyond the dense shade in which we moved. Every now 
and then, we caught glimpses of the silver lake that shim- 
mered through the trees ; and, now and then, in the dead 
no on- tide stillness, we could hear the gentle lapping of the 
water on the pebbled shore — the only sound we heard, 
except the low deep hum of myriads of insects revelling out 
their summer lives. We had all agreed that talking made, 
us hotter, so we and the birds were very silent. Out again 
into the hot bright sunny dazzling road, the fierce sun above 
our heads made us long to be at home ; but we had passed 
the half-way, and to go on was shorter than to return. Now 
we left the highway, and began to mount. The ascent 
looked disheartening, but at almost every step we gained 
increased freshness of air; and the crisp short mountain 
grass was soft and cool in comparison with the high road. 
The little wandering breezes, that came every now and then 
athwart us, were laden with fragrant scents — now of wild 
thyme — now of the little scrambling creeping white rose, 
which ran along the ground and pricked our feet with its 

45 6 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

sharp thorns ; and now we came to a trickling streamlet, on 
whose spongy banks grew great bushes of the bog- myrtle, 
giving a spicy odour to the air. When our breath failed us 
during that steep ascent, we had one invariable dodge by 
which we hoped to escape the “ fat and scant of breath ” 
quotation ; we turned round and admired the lovely views, 
which from each succeeding elevation became more and 
more beautiful. 

At last, perched on a level which seemed nothing more 
than a mere shelf of rock, we saw our destined haven — a 
grey stone farm-house, high over our heads, high above the 
lake as we were — with out-buildings enough around it to 
justify the Scotch name of a “ town ; ” and near it one of 
those great bossy sycamores, so common in similar situations 
all through Cumberland and Westmorland. One more 
long tug and then we should be there. So, cheering the 
poor tired little ones, we set off bravely for that last piece of 
steep rocky path ; and we never looked behind till we stood 
in the coolness of the deep porch, looking down from our 
natural terrace on the glassy Derwent water, far, far below, 
reflecting each tint of the blue sky, only in darker fuller 
colours every one. We seemed on a level with the top of 
Catbells ; and the tops of great trees lay deep down — so 
deep that we felt as if they were close enough together and 
solid enough to bear our feet if we chose to spring down 
and walk upon them. Eight in front of where we stood, 
there was a ledge of the rocky field that surrounded the 
house. We had knocked at the door, but it was evident 
that we were unheard in the din and merry clatter of voices 
within, and our old original shyness returned. By and bye, 
some one found us out, and a hearty burst of hospitable 
welcome ensued. Our coming was all right ; it was under- 
stood in a minute who we were; our real hostess was 
hardly less urgent in her civilities than our temporary 
hostess, and both together bustled us out of the room upon 
which the outer door entered, into a large bedroom which 
opened out of it — the state apartment, in all such houses in 

457 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

Cumberland — where the children make their first appearance, 
and where the heads of the household lie down to die if the 
Great Conqueror gives them sufficient warning for such 
decent and composed submission as is best in accordance 
with the simple dignity of their lives. 

Into this chamber we were ushered, and the immediate 
relief from its dark coolness to our overheated bodies and. 
dazzled eyes was inexpressibly refreshing. The walls were 
so thick that there was room for a very comfortable window - 
seat in them, without there being any projection into the 
room ; and the long, low shape prevented the sky-line from 
being unusually depressed, even at that height ; and so the 
light was subdued, and, the general tint through the room 
deepened into darkness, where the eye fell on that stupen- 
dous bed, with its posts, and its head-piece, and its foot- 
board, and its trappings of all kinds of the deepest brown ; 
and the frame itself looked large enough for six or seven 
people to lie comfortably therein, without even touching 
each other. In the hearth -place stood a great pitcher filled 
with branches of odorous mountain flowers ; and little bits 
of rosemary and lavender were strewed about the room ; 
partly, as I afterwards learnt, to prevent incautious feet 
from slipping about on the polished oak floor. When we 
had noticed everything, and rested, and cooled (as much as 
we could do before the equinox), we returned to the company 
assembled in the house-place. 

This house-place was almost a hall in grandeur. Along 
one side ran an oaken dresser, all decked with the same 
sweet evergreens, fragments of which strewed the bedroom 
floor. Over this dresser were shelves, bright with most 
exquisitely polished pewter. Opposite to the bedroom door 
was the great hospitable fireplace, ensconced within its 
proper chimney corners, and having the “ master’s cupboard ” 
on its right hand side. Do you know what a “ master’s 
cupboard ” is ? Mr. Wordsworth could have told you ; ay, 
and have shown you one at Rydal Mount, too. It is a 
cupboard about a foot in width, and a foot and a half in 

458 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

breadth, expressly reserved for the use of the master of the 
household. Here he may keep pipe and tankard, almanac, 
and what not ; and although no door bars the access of any 
hand, in this open cupboard his peculiar properties rest 
secure, for is it not “ the master’s cupboard ” ? There was 
a fire in the house-place, even on this hot day ; it gave a 
grace and a vividness to the room, and being kept within 
proper limits, it seemed no more than was requisite to boil 
the kettle. For, I should say, that the very minute of our 
arrival, our hostess (so I shall designate the wife of the 
farmer at whose house the sheep-shearing was to be held) 
proposed tea ; and, although we had not dined, for it was but 
little past three, yet, on the principle of “ Do at Eome as the 
Eomans do,” we assented with a good grace, thankful to 
have any refreshment offered us, short of water-gruel, after 
our long and tiring walk, and rather afraid of our children 
“ cooling too quickly.” 

While the tea was preparing, and it took six comely 
matrons to do it justice, we proposed to Mrs. C. (our real 
hostess), that we should go and see the sheep-shearing. She 
accordingly led us away into a back yard, where the process 
was going on. By a back yard I mean a far different place 
from what a Londoner would so designate ; our back yard, 
high up on the mountain side, was a space about forty yards 
by twenty, over-shadowed by the noble sycamore, which 
might have been the very one that suggested to Coleridge — 

“ This sycamore (oft musical with bees — 

Such tents the Patriarchs loved),” &c., &c. 

And in this deep, cool, green shadow sate two or three grey- 
haired sires, smoking their pipes, and regarding the pro- 
ceedings with a placid complacency, which had a savour of 
contempt in it for the degeneracy of the present times — a 
sort of “ Ah ! they don’t know what good shearing is now-a- 
days ” look in it. That round shadow of the sycamore tree, 
and the elders who sat there looking on were the only 
things not full of motion and life in the yard. The yard 
itself was bounded by a grey stone wall, and the moors rose 

459 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

above it to the mountain top ; we looked over the low walls 
on to the spaces bright with the yellow asphodel, and the 
first flush of the purple heather. The shadow of the farm- 
house fell over this yard, so that it was cool in aspect, save 
for the ruddy faces of the eager shearers, and the gay- 
coloured linsey petticoats of the women, folding the fleeces 
with tucked-up gowns. 

When we first went into the yard, every corner of it 
seemed as full of motion as an antique frieze, and, like that, 
had to be studied before I could ascertain the different 
actions and purposes involved. On the left hand was a 
walled-in field of some extent, full of sunshine and light, 
with the heated air quivering over the flocks of panting, 
bewildered sheep, who were penned up therein, awaiting 
their turn to be shorn. At the gate by which this field was 
entered from the yard stood a group of eager-eyed boys, 
panting like the sheep, but not like them from fear, but 
from excitement and joyous exertion. Their faces were 
flushed with brown-crimson, their scarlet lips were parted 
into smiles, and their eyes had that peculiar blue lustre in 
them, which is only gained by a free life in the pure and 
blithesome air. As soon as these lads saw that a sheep was 
wanted by the shearers within, they sprang towards one in 
the field — the more boisterous and stubborn an old ram the 
better— and tugging and pulling, and pushing, and shouting 
— sometimes mounting astride of the poor obstreperous 
brute, and holding his horns like a bridle — they gained their 
point, and dragged their captive up to the shearer, like little 
victors as they were, all glowing and ruddy with conquest. 
The shearers sat each astride on a long bench, grave and 
important — the heroes of the day. The flock of sheep to be 
shorn on this occasion consisted of more than a thousand, 
and eleven famous shearers had come, walking in from many 
miles’ distance to try their skill, one against the other; for 
sheep-shearings are a sort of rural Olympics. They were all 
young men in their prime, strong, and well-made ; without 
coat or waistcoat, and with upturned shirt-sleeves. They 

460 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

sat each across a long bench or narrow table, and caught up 
the sheep from the attendant boys, who had dragged it in ; 
they lifted it on to the bench, and placing it by a dexterous 
knack on its back, they began to shear the wool off the tail 
and under parts ; then they tied the two hind legs and the 
two fore legs together, and laid it first on one side and then 
on the other, till the fleece came off in one whole piece ; the 
art was to shear all the wool off, and yet not to injure the 
sheep by any awkward cut: if any such an accident did 
occur, a mixture of tar and butter was immediately applied ; 
but every wound was a blemish on the shearer’s fame. To 
shear well and completely, and yet do it quickly, shows 
the perfection of the clippers. Some can finish off as many 
as six score sheep in a summer’s day ; and if you consider 
the weight and uncouthness of the animal, and the general 
heat of the weather, you will see that, with justice, clipping 
or shearing is regarded as harder work than mowing. But 
most good shearers are content with despatching four or 
five score ; it is only on unusual occasions, or when Greek 
meets Greek, that six score are attempted or accomplished. 

When the sheep is divided into its fleece and itself, it 
becomes the property of two persons. The women seize the 
fleece, and, standing by the side of a temporary dresser (in 
this case made of planks laid across barrels, beneath what 
sharp scant shadow could be obtained from the eaves of the 
house), they fold it up. This, again, is an art, simple as it 
may seem ; and the farmers’ wives and daughters about 
Langdale Head are famous for it. They begin with folding 
up the legs, and then roll the whole fleece up, tying it with 
the neck ; and the skill consists, not merely in doing this 
quickly and firmly, but in certain artistic pulls of the wool so 
as to display the finer parts, and not, by crushing up the 
fibre, to make it appear coarse to the buyer. Six comely 
women were thus employed ; they laughed, and talked, and 
sent shafts of merry satire at the grave and busy shearers, 
who were too earnest in their work to reply, although an 
occasional deepening of colour, or twinkle of the eye, would 

461 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

tell that the remark had hit. But they reserved their retorts, 
if they had any, until the evening, when the day’s labour 
would be over, and when, in the licence of country humour, 

I imagine, some of the saucy speakers would meet with their 
match. As yet, the applause came from their own party of 
women ; though now and then one of the old men, sitting 
under the shade of a sycamore, would take his pipe out of 1 
his mouth to spit, and, before beginning again to send up the | 
softly curling white wreaths of smoke, he would condescend 
on a short deep laugh, and a “ Well done, Maggie ! ” “ Give 
it him, lass ! ” for, with the not unkindly jealousy of age 
towards youth, the old grandfathers invariably took part 
with the women against the young men. These sheared on, 
throwing the fleeces to the folders, and casting the sheep 
down on the ground with gentle strength, ready for another 
troop of boys to haul it to the right-hand side of the farm- 
yard, where the great out-buildings were placed ; where all 
sorts of country vehicles were crammed and piled, and 
seemed to throw up their scarlet shafts into the air, as if 
imploring relief from the crowd of shandries and market 
carts that pressed upon them. Out of the sun, in the dark 
shadow of the cart-house, a pan of red-hot coals glowed in 
a trivet ; and upon them was placed an iron basin holding 
tar and raddle, or ruddle. Hither the right-hand troop of 
boys dragged the poor naked sheep to be “ smitten ” — that 
is to say, marked with the initials or cypher of the owner. 
In this case, the. sign of the possessor was a circle or spot on 
one side, and a straight line on the other ; and, after the i 
sheep were thus marked, they were turned out to the moor, 
amid the crowd of bleating lambs that sent up an incessant j 
moan for their lost mothers; each found out the ewe to 
which it belonged the moment she was turned out of the 
yard, and the placid contentment of the sheep that wandered 
away up the hill side, with their little lambs trotting by them, 
gave just the necessary touch of peace and repose to. the; 
scene. There were all the classical elements for the repre- 
sentation of life : there were the “ Old men and maidens, J 

462 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

young men and children ” of the Psalmist ; there were all 
the stages and conditions of being that sing forth their 
farewell to the departing crusaders in the “ Saint’s Tragedy.” 

We were very glad indeed that we had seen the sheep- 
shearing, though the road had been hot, and long, and dusty, 
and we were as yet unrefreshed and hungry. When we 
had understood the separate actions of the busy scene, we 
could begin to notice individuals. I soon picked out a very 
beautiful young woman as an object of admiration and 
interest. She stood by a buxom woman of middle age, who 
had just sufficient likeness to point her out as the mother. 
Both were folding fleeces, and folding them well; but the 
mother talked all the time with a rich- toned voice, and a 
merry laugh and eye, while the daughter hung her head 
silently over her work ; and I could only guess at the beauty 
of her eyes by the dark sweeping shadow of her eyelashes. 
She was well dressed, and had evidently got on her Sunday 
gown, although a good deal for the honour of the thing, as 
the flowing skirt was tucked up in a bunch behind, in order 
to be out of her way : beneath the gown, and far more con- 
spicuous — and, possibly, far prettier — was a striped petticoat 
of full deep blue and scarlet, revealing the blue cotton 
stockings, common in that part of the country, and the 
pretty, neat leather shoes. The girl had tucked her brown 
hair back behind her ears ; but, if she had known how often 
she would have had occasion to blush, I think she would 
have kept that natural veil more over her. delicate cheek. 
She blushed deeper and ever deeper, because one of the 
shearers, in every interval of his work, looked at her and 
sighed. Neither of them spoke a word, though both were as 
conscious of the other as could be ; and the buxom mother, 
with a ’side-long glance, took cognizance of the affair from 
time to time, with no unpleased expression. 

I had got thus far in my career of observation when our 
hostess for the day came to tell us that tea was ready, and 
we arose stiffly from the sward on which we had been sitting, 
and went in-doors to the house-place. There, all round, 

4 6 3 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

were ranged rows of sedate matrons ; some with babes, some 
without ; they bad been summoned from over mountains, 
and beyond wild fells, and across deep dales, to the shearing 
of that day, just as their ancestors were called out by the 
Fiery Cross. We were conducted to a tea-table, at which, 
in spite of our entreaties, no one would sit down except our 
hostess, who poured out tea, of which more by-and-bye. 
Behind us, on the dresser, were plates piled up with “ berry- 
cake ” (puff-paste with gooseberries inside), currant and 
plain bread and butter, hot cakes buttered with honey (if 
that is not Irish), and great pieces of new cheese to be put 
in between the honeyed slices, and so toasted impromptu. 
There were two black teapots on the tray, and taking one of 
these in her left hand, and one in her right, our hostess held 
them up both on high, and skilfully poured from each into 
one and the same cup ; the teapots contained green and black 
tea ; and this was her way of mixing them, which she con- 
sidered far better, she told us, than if both the leaves had been 
“ mashed ” together. The cups of tea were dosed with lump 
upon lump of the finest sugar, but the rich yellow fragrant 
cream was dropped in but very sparingly, I reserved many 
of my inquiries, suggested by this Dale tea- drinking, to be 
answered by Mrs. C., with whom we were lodging : and I 
asked her why I could neither get cream enough for myself, 
nor milk sufficient for the children, when both were evidently 
so abundant, and our entertainers so profusely hospitable. She 
told me, that my request for each was set down to modesty 
and a desire to spare the “ grocer’s stuff,” which, as costing 
money, was considered the proper thing to force upon 
visitors, while the farm produce was reckoned too common 
and every-day for such a choice festivity and such honoured 
guests. So I drank tea as strong as brandy and as sweet as 
syrup, and had to moan in secret over my children’s nerves. 
My children found something else to moan over before the 
meal was ended ; the good farmer’s wife would give them 
each “sweet butter” on their oat-cake or “ clap- bread ; ” 
and sweet butter is made of butter, sugar, and rum melted 

464 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

together and potted, and is altogether the most nauseous 
compound in the shape of a dainty I ever tasted. My poor 
children thought it so, as I could tell by their • glistening 
piteous eyes and trembling lips, as they vainly tried to get 
through what their stomachs rejected. I got it from them 
by stealth and ate it myself, in order to spare the feelings of 
our hostess, who, evidently, considered it as a choice delicacy. 
But no sooner did she perceive that they were without sweet 
butter than she urged them to take some more, and bade me 
not scrimp it, for they had enough and to spare for every- 
body. This “ sweet butter ” is made for express occasions — 
the clippings, and Christmas ; and for these two seasons all 
christenings in a family are generally reserved. When we 
had eaten and eaten— and, hungry as we were, we found it 
difficult to come up to our hostess’s ideas of the duty before 
us— she took me into the real working kitchen, to show me 
the preparations going on for the refreshment of the seventy 
people there and then assembled. Rounds of beef, hams, 
fillets of veal, and legs of mutton bobbed, indiscriminately 
with plum puddings, up and down in a great boiler, from 
which a steam arose, when she lifted up the lid, reminding 
one exceedingly of Camacho’s wedding. The resemblance 
was increased when we were shown another boiler out of 
doors, placed over a temporary frame-work of brick, and 
equally full with the other, if, indeed, not more so. 

Just at this moment — as she stood and I stood on the 
remote side of the farm-buildings, within sound of all the 
pleasant noises which told of merry life so near, and yet out 
of sight of any of them, gazing forth on the moorland and 
the rocks, and the purple crest of the mountain, the opposite 
base of which fell into Watendlath— the gate of the yard was 
opened, and my rustic beauty came rushing in, her face all 
a-fire. When she saw us she stopped suddenly, and was about 
to turn, when she was followed, and the entrance blocked up by 
the handsome young shearer. I saw a knowing look on my 
companion’s face, as she quickly led me out by another way. 

“ Who is that handsome girl ? ” asked I. 

465 


2 H 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

“ It’s just Isabel Crosthwaite,” she replied. “ Her 
mother is a cousin of my master’s, widow of a statesman near 
Appleby. ‘She is well to do, and Isabel is her only child.” 

“ Heiress, as well as beauty,” thought I ; but all I said 
was — 

“ And who is the young man with her ? ” 

“ That,” said she, looking up at me with surprise. “ That’s 
our Tom. You see, his father and me and Margaret Cros- 
thwaite have fixed that these young ones are to wed each 
other; and Tom is very willing — but she is young and skittish; 
but she'll come to — she’ll come to. He’ll not be best shearer 
this day anyhow, as he was last year down in Buttermere ; 
but he’ll may be come round for next year.” 

So spoke middle age of the passionate loves of the young. 
I could fancy that Isabel might resent being so calmly dis- 
posed of, and I did not like or admire her the less because by 
and bye she plunged into the very midst of the circle of 
matrons, as if in the Eleusinian circle she could alone obtain 
a sanctuary against her lover’s pursuit. She looked so much 
and so truly annoyed that I disliked her mother, and thought 
the young man unworthy of her, until I saw the mother 
come and take into her arms a little orphan child, whom I 
learnt she had bought from a beggar on the road-side that 
was ill-using her. This child hung about the woman, and 
called her “ Mammy ” in such pretty trusting tones, that I 
became reconciled to the match-making widow, for the sake 
of her warm heart; and as for the young man — the woe- 
begone face that he presented from time to time at the open 
door, to be scouted and scolded thence by all the women, 
while Isabel resolutely turned her back upon him, and pre- 
tended to be very busy cutting bread and butter, made me 
really sorry for him ; though we — experienced spectators — 
could see the end of all this coyness and blushing as well as 
if we were in church at the wedding. 

Erom four to five o’clock on a summer’s day is a sort of 
second noon for heat; and now that we were up on this 
breezy height, it seemed so disagreeable to think of going 

466 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

once more into the close woods down below, and to brave 
the parched and dusty road, that we gladly and lazily resigned 
ourselves to stay a little later, and to make our jolly three- 
o’clock tea serve for dinner. 

So I strolled into the busy yard once more ; and, by 
watching my opportunity, I crossed between men, women, 
boys, sheep, and barking dogs, and got to an old man, 
sitting under the sycamore, who had been pointed out to 
me as the owner of the sheep and the farm. For a few 
minutes he went on, doggedly puffing away ; but I knew 
that this reserve on his part arose from no want of friendli- 
ness, but from the shy reserve which is the characteristic of 
most Westmorland and Cumberland people. By and bye 
he began to talk, and he gave me much information about 
his sheep. He took a “ walk ” from a landowner with so 
many sheep upon it; in his case one thousand and fifty, 
which was a large number, about six hundred being the 
average. Before taking the “ walk,” he and his landlord 
each appointed two “ knowledgeable people ” to value the 
stock. The “ walk ” was taken on lease of five or seven 
years, and extended ten miles over the Fells in one direction 
— he could not exactly say how far in another, but more ; 
yes ! certainly more. At the expiration of the lease, the 
stock are again numbered, and valued in the same way. If 
the sheep are poorer, and gone off, the tenant has to pay for 
their depreciation in money; if they have improved in 
quality, the landlord pays him ; but, one way or another, the 
same number must be restored, while the increase of each 
year, and the annual fleeces form the tenant’s profit. Of 
course they were all of the black-faced or mountain breed, 
fit for scrambling and endurance, and capable of being 
nourished by the sweet but scanty grass that grew on the 
Fells. To take charge of his flock he employed three shep- 
herds, one of whom was my friend Tom. They had other 
work down on the farm, for the farm was “ down ” compared 
with the airy heights to which these sheep will scramble. 
The shepherd’s year begins before the twentieth of March, 

467 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

by which time the ewes must be all safely down in the home 
pastures, at hand in case they or their lambs require extra 
care at yeaning time. About the sixteenth of June the 
sheep-washing begins. Formerly, said my old man, men 
stood bare-legged in a running stream, dammed up so as to 
make a pool, which was more cleansing than any still water, 
with its continual foam, and fret, and struggle to overcome 
the obstacle that impeded its progress ; and these men caught 
the sheep, which were hurled to them by the people on the 
banks, and rubbed them and soused them well ; but now (alas 
for these degenerate days !) folk were content to throw them in 
head downwards, and thought that they were washed enough' 
with swimming to the bank. However this proceeding was 
managed, in a fortnight after the shearing or clipping came 
on ; and people were bidden to it from twenty miles off or 
better; but not as they. had been fifty years ago. Still, if a 
family possessed a skilful shearer in the person of a son, or 
if the good wife could fold fleeces well and deftly, they were 
sure of a gay week in clipping time, passing from farm to 
farm in merry succession, giving their aid, feasting on the 
fat of the land (“sweet butter” amongst other things, and 
much good may it do them !) until they in their turn called 
upon their neighbours for help. In short, good old-fashioned 
sheep-shearings are carried on much in the same sort of way 
as an American Bee. 

As soon as the clipping is over, the sheep are turned out 
upon the Fells, where their greatest enemy is the fly. The 
ravens do harm to the young lambs in May and June, and 
the shepherds scale the steep grey rocks to take a raven’s 
nest with infinite zest and delight ; but no shepherd can 

save his sheep from the terrible fly — the common flesh-fly 

which burrows in the poor animal, and lays its obscene eggs, 
and the maggots eat it up alive. To obviate this as much as 
ever they can, the shepherds go up on the Fells about twice 
a week in summer time, and, sending out their faithful dogs, 
collect the sheep into great circles, the dogs running on the 
outside and keeping them in. The quick-eyed shepherd 

468 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

stands in the midst, and, if a sheep make an effort to scratch 
herself, the dog is summoned, and the infected sheep brought 
up to be examined, the piece cut out, and salved. But, not- 
withstanding this, in some summers scores of sheep are 
killed in this way : thundery and close weather is peculiarly 
productive of this plague. The next operation which the 
shepherd has to attend to is about the middle or end of 
October, when the sheep are brought down to be salved, and 
an extra man is usually hired on the farm for this week. 
But it is no feasting or merry-making time like a clipping. 
Sober business reigns. The men sit astride on their benches 
and besmear the poor helpless beast with a mixture of tar 
and bad butter, or coarse grease, which is supposed to 
promote the growth and fineness of the wool, by preventing 
skin diseases of all kinds, such as would leave a patch bare. 
The mark of ownership is renewed with additional tar and 
raddle, and they are sent up once more to their breezy walk, 
where the winter winds begin to pipe and to blow, and to 
call away their brethren from the icy North. Once a week 
the shepherds go up and scour the Fells, looking over the 
sheep and seeing how the herbage lasts. And this is the 
dangerous and wild time for the shepherds. The snows and 
the mists (more to be dreaded even than snow) may come 
on ; and there is no lack of tales, about the Christmas 
hearth, of men who have gone up to the wild and desolate 
Fells and have never been seen more, but whose voices are 
yet heard calling on their dogs, or uttering fierce despairing 
cries for help ; and so they will call till the end of time, till 
their whitened bones have risen again. 

Towards the middle of January, great care is necessary, 
as by this time the sheep have grown weak and lean with 
lack of food, and the excess of cold. Yet, as the mountain 
sheep will not eat turnips, but must be fed with hay, it is 
a piece of economy to delay beginning to feed them as long 
as possible ; and to know the exact nick of time requires as 
much skill as must have been possessed by Emma’s father 
in Miss Austen’s delightful novel, who required his gruel 

469 


Cumberland Sheep-shearers 

“ thin, but not too thin.” And so the Shepherd’s Calender 
works round to yeaning time again ! It must be a pleasant 
employment ; reminding one of Wordsworth’s lines — 

“ In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman stretched 
On the soft grass, through half the summer’s day,” &c. 

and of shepherd-boys with their reedy pipes, taught by 
Pan, and of the Chaldean shepherds studying the stars ; of 
Poussin’s picture of the Good Shepherd, of the “ Shepherds 
keeping watch by night ! ” and I don’t know how many other 
things, not forgetting some of Cooper’s delightful pieces. 

While I was thus rambling on in thought, my host was 
telling me of the prices of wool that year, for we had grown 
quite confidential by this time. Wool was sold by the stone ; 
he expected to get ten or twelve shillings a stone ; it took 
three or four fleeces to make a stone : before the Australian 
wool came in, he had got twenty shillings, ay and more ; 
but now — and again we sighed over the degeneracy of the 
times, till he took up his pipe (not Pandean) for consolation, 
and I bethought me of the long walk home, and the tired 
little ones, who must not be worried. So, with much regret, 
we took our leave ; the fiddler had just arrived as we were 
wishing goodbye ; the shadow of the house had overspread 
the yard; the boys were more in number than the sheep 
that remained to be shorn ; the busy women were dishing up 
great smoking rounds of beef ; and, in addition to all the 
provision I had seen in the boilers, large-mouthed ovens 
were disgorging berry-pies without end, and rice -puddings 
stuck full of almonds and raisins. 

As we descended the hill, we passed a little rustic bridge 
with a great alder bush near it. Underneath sat Isabel, as 
rosy red as ever, but dimpling up with smiles, while Tom lay 
at her feet, and looked up into her eyes ; his faithful sheep- 
dog sat by him, but flapped his tail vainly in hope of obtain- 
ing some notice. His master was too much absorbed for 
that. Poor Fly! Every dog has his day, and yours was 
not this tenth of July. 


470 


MODERN GREEK SONGS 


I have lately met with a French book which has interested 
me much ; and, as it is now out of print, and was never very 
extensively known, I imagine some account of it may not 
be displeasing to the readers of “ Household Words.” 

It is called “ Chants Populaires de la Grece Moderne, par 
C. Fauriel.” M. Fauriel is a Greek, in spite of his French 
name, and the language in which he writes. The plan on 
which he has collected these “ Chants Populaires resembles 
that of Sir Walter Scott, in his Border Minstrelsy.” In both 
cases there is a preliminary discourse explaining the manners 
and peculiar character of the people among whom these 
ballads circulate, and the history of whose ancestors and 
popular heroes they commemorate. This discourse and the 
explanatory notes give the principal interest to the book, as 
they tell of the habits and customs and traditions of a people 
whom we are apt to moan over, as having fallen low from the 
high estate of the civilisation of their ancestors. But, as there 
are four millions of men who claim a direct descent from the 
most polished people the world has ever known, it becomes 
worth one’s while to learn something of their present state. 

M. Fauriel divides the poetry of modern Greece into two 
kinds ; works of literature, written down as composed, and 
corrected and revised in strict accordance with the rules of 
art, and the real ballads — poems springing out of the heart 
of the nation whenever it is deeply stirred, and circulating 
from man to man with the rapidity of flame : never written 
down, but never forgotten. Some of these songs relate to 
domestic, but the majority to popular, events 

47i 


Modern Greek Songs 

Let us take the household songs. There are two feasts 
which are celebrated in every house. The first is on New 
Year’s Day, the feast of St. Basil in the Greek Church. The 
account which M. Fauriel gives reminds me much of a 
Scottish New Year’s Day. The young men pass from one 
house to another until all their friends have been visited ; 
bringing with them presents, and going, in glad procession, 
to salute all their acquaintances. But, instead of our “ I 
wish you a happy new year and many of them,” the young 
Greeks, on entering each house, sing some verses in honour 
of the master or head of the family ; others in honour of the 
mistress; the sons of the house have each their song, nor 
are the daughters forgotten. Those who are absent or dead 
receive this compliment last of all. The key changes ; the 
remembrance of the lost is sung mournfully and sadly ; but 
none of the family are left out on the feast of St. Basil. As 
they go along the streets they sing in honour of the saint. 
I was once, in England, most kindly received by a Greek 
family, who allowed me to witness their Easter-day cere- 
monies ; which, in the expression of good wishes and the 
glad visits of congratulation paid by all the gentlemen to 
their friends, must have resembled a feast of St. Basil with- 
out the songs. The family consisted of a Greek mother, a 
most lovely daughter, and a son, who left his own home on 
this day to visit his friends. 

In one corner of the small English drawing-room there 
was spread a table covered with mellow-looking sweetmeats, 
all as if the glow of sunset rested on their amber and 
crimson colours ; and there were decanters containing 
mysterious liquids to match. In came one Greek gentleman 
after another with some short sentence, which burst forth as 
if it contained the perfection of joy. It was the Greek for 
“ Christ is risen.” Then all shook hands ; the visitors tasted 
of the jewel-like sweetmeats, and rushed off to go some- 
where else, and to have their places taken by other troops of 
friends. But we had no songs ; nor do I know if, in our 
cold northern climate, the Greeks keep up the feast of the 

472 


Modern Greek Songs 

coming Spring. In Greece this is held on the first of 
March ; the first of May would often be early greeting to the 
spring in England. At this pretty holiday, the children in 
their spring of human life join the young men, and go sing- 
ing about the streets, and asking for small presents in 
honour of the soft and budding time ; and every one gives 
them an egg, or some cheese, or some other simple produce 
of the country. The song they sing is one which, for its 
grace and the breath of spring and flowers which purfumes 
it, is known in many countries, as well as in Greece, under 
the name of the Song of the Swallow. The children carry 
about with them the figure of a swallow rudely cut in wood, 
and fastened to a kind of little windmill, which is turned by a 
piece of string fastened to a cylinder. 

The modern Greeks are an essentially commercial people. 
I have heard a saying which shows the popular opinion of 
their bargaining talents : “It takes two Englishmen to cheat 
a Scotchman ; two Scotchmen to cheat a Jew ; two Jews to 
cheat a Greek.” This turn for commerce, added to the 
poverty of their own country, and the uncertain tenure of 
property there, causes numbers of Greeks to become 
merchants in other countries; but they suffer acutely on 
first leaving their homes ; the nearer to the mountains the 
more they mourn ; and their sadness as well as their joy is 
expressed by song. 

When anyone is leaving his home to go into a strange 
land, his friends and ' companions meet together at his house 
to share with him one final meal ; and, after that, they 
accompany him on a part of his way, as Orpah and Ruth 
accompanied Naomi ; as Raphael’s companions, for the 
great love they bore him, went with him when he left the 
studio of Perugino. And as they walk along they sing. 
There are songs set apart from time immemorial for the sad 
occasion of a Greek’s departure from Greece ; and others are 
made on the spot, out of the excited feelings of the moment. 
There is a story told of a youth — the youngest of three 
brothers — but little beloved by his mother : the poor fellow 

473 


Modern Greek Songs 

endeavoured in vain to win some scanty sprinkling of the 
affection that was showered on his elder brothers ; and at 
last he determined to become an exile from that home which 
was no home to him. So he set forth, accompanied by his 
young companions, his brothers, his sisters, and, as a matter 
of form, by his mother herself. Four or five miles from his 
birthplace there was a small gorge through which the narrow 
road wound. This was the determined point of separation ; 
and here, among the rocky echoes, were sung the most 
doleful farewell songs. Suddenly the young man mounted 
upon a rock, and improvised a poem on the sufferings he had 
experienced from the indifference of his mother. He cried to 
her to bless him once, before he went away for ever, with 
something of the wild entreaty of Esau when he adjured 
Isaac to “ Bless me, also, O my father ! ” Nor was this 
strange poetic appeal in vain : “ the mother, with a sudden 
Eastern change of feeling, could hardly wait until the impro- 
vised song was finished (I have sometimes felt as impatient 
over an improvised sermon), before she in her turn sang 
her repentance ; and promised, if he would remain at home, 
that she would be a better mother for the future.” M. 
Fauriel says no more. I should not have been sorry to have 
had the old fairy-tale ending affixed to this true story, “ And 
they lived together very happily for ever after.” 

Now let us hear about the marriage- songs. Life seems 
like an opera amongst the modern Greeks ; all emotions, all 
events, require the relief of singing. But a marriage is a sing- 
ing time among human beings as well as birds. Among the 
Greeks the youth of both sexes are kept apart, and do not 
meet excepting on the occasion of some public feast, when 
the young Greek makes choice of his bride, and asks her 
parents for their consent. If they give it, all is arranged for 
the betrothal ; but the young people are not allowed to see 
each other again until that event. There are parts of Greece 
where the young man is allowed to declare his passion him- 
self to the object of it. Not in words, however, does he 
breathe his tender suit. He tries to meet with her in some 

474 


Modern Greek Songs 

path, or other place in which he may throw her an apple or 
a flower. If the former missile be chosen, one can only hope 
that the young lady is apt at catching, as a blow from a 
moderately hard apple is rather too violent a token of love. 
After this apple or flower throwing, his only chance of meet- 
ing with his love is at the fountain ; to which all Greek 
maidens go to draw water, as Eebekah went, of old, to the 
well. 

The ceremony of betrothal is very simple. On an 
appointed evening, the relations of the lovers meet together 
in the presence of a priest, either at the house of the father 
of the future husband, or at that of the parents of the bride 
elect. After the marriage contract is signed, two young 
girls bring in the affianced maiden — who is covered all over 
with a veil — and present her to her lover, who takes her by 
the hand, and leads her up to the priest. They exchange 
rings before him, and he gives them his blessing. The bride 
then retires ; but all the rest of the company remain, and 
spend the day in merry-making and drinking the health of 
the young couple. The interval between the betrothal and 
the marriage may be but a few hours ; it may be months, 
and it may be years ; but, whatever the length of time, the 
lovers must never meet again until the wedding day comes. 
Three or four days before that time, the father and mother 
of the bride send round their notes of invitation ; each of 
which is accompanied by the present of a bottle of wine. 
The answers come in with even more substantial accompani- 
ments. Those who have great pleasure in accepting, send a 
present with their reply ; the most frequent is a ram or 
lamb dressed up with ribands and flowers ; but the poorest 
send their quarter of mutton as their contribution to the 
wedding-feast. 

The eve of the marriage, or rather during the night, the 
friends on each side go to deck out the bride and groom for 
the approaching ceremony. The bridegroom is shaved by 
his paranymph or groom’s man, in a very grave and dignified 
manner, in the presence of all the young ladies invited. 

475 


Modern Greek Songs 

Fancy the attitude of the bridegroom, anxious and motionless 
under the hands of his unpractised barber, his nose held 
lightly up between a finger and thumb, while a crowd of 
young girls look gravely on at the graceful operation ! The 
bride is decked, for her part, by her young companions ; who 
dress her in white, and cover her all over with a long veil 
made of the finest stuff. Early the next morning the young 
man and all his friends come forth, like a bridegroom out of 
his chamber, to seek the bride, and carry her off from her 
father’s house. Then she, in songs as ancient as the ruins 
of the old temples that lie around her, sings her sorrowful 
farewell to the father who has cared for her and protected 
her hitherto ; to the mother who has borne her, and cherished 
her ; to the companions of her maidenhood ; to her early 
home ; to the fountain whence she daily fetched water ; to 
the trees which shaded her childish play ; and every now and 
then she gives way to natural tears : then, according to 
immemorial usage, the paranymph turns to the glad yet 
sympathetic procession, and says in a sentence which has 
become proverbial on such occasions — “ Let her alone ! she 
weeps ! ” To which she must make answer, “ Lead me 
away, but let me weep ! ” After the cortege has borne the 
bride to the house of her husband, the whole party adjourn 
to church, where the religious ceremony is performed. 
Then they return to the dwelling of the bridegroom, where 
they all sit down and feast ; except the bride, w T ho remains 
veiled, standing alone, until the middle of the banquet, when 
the paranymph draws near, unlooses the veil, which falls 
down, and she stands blushing, exposed to the eyes of all the 
guests. The next day is given up to the performance of 
dances peculiar to a wedding. The third day the relations 
and friends meet all together, and lead the bride to the 
fountain, from the waters of which she fills a new earthen 
vessel ; and into which she throws various provisions. They 
afterwards dance in circles round the fountain. 

At every one of the ceremonials which I have thus briefly 
recounted, a song appropriate to the occasion is chanted; 

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Modern Greek Songs 

they explain the motive of each particular act — of what event 
in human life it is to be considered the type. Even the 
shaving has its song, set apart. But many of the forms I 
have described are very poetical, and full of meaning in 
themselves. The character of the marriage songs is tender, 
yet gay and hopeful ; but the character of the “ myriologia,” 
or funeral songs, is altogether despairing and sad. When 
any one dies, his wife, his mother, and his sisters, all come 
up to the poor motionless body, and softly close the eyes and 
the mouth. Then they leave the house, and go to that of a 
friend, where they dress in white, as if for some glad nuptial 
occasion : with this sole difference, that their hair is allowed 
to flow dishevelled and uncovered. Other women are busy 
with the corpse while they change their dress in a neigh- 
bour’s house ; the body is dressed in the best clothes the 
dead possessed ; and it is then laid on a low bed, with the 
face uncovered, and turned towards the east ; while the arms 
lie peacefully crossed on the breast. When all these pre- 
parations have been made, the relations return to the house 
of mourning ; leaving the door open, so that all who wish 
once more to gaze on the face of the departed may enter in. 
All who come range themselves around the bed, and weep 
and cry aloud without restraint. As soon as they are a little 
calmer some one begins to chant the myriologia — a custom 
common to the ancient Hebrews, as well as to the more 
modern Irish — with their keenness and their plaintive enume- 
ration of the goods, and blessings, and love which the deceased 
possessed in this world which he has left. In the mountains 
of Greece, the nearest and dearest among the female relations 
first lifts up her voice in the myriologia ; she is followed by 
others, either sisters or friends. 

M. Fauriel gives an instance of the style of dramatic per- 
sonation of events common in the myriologia. A peasant 
woman, about twenty-five years of age, had lost her husband, 
who left her with two infant children. She was extremely 
uneducated, and had lived the silent, self-contained life 
to the Greek women. But there was something 
477 


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Modern Greek Songs 

very striking in the manner in which she began her wail over 
the dead body. Addressing herself to him, she said, “ I saw at 
the door of our dwelling, yea, I saw at the door of our house, 
a young man of tall stature and threatening aspect, having 
wings like the clouds for whiteness. He stood on the threshold 
of our home, with a naked sword in his hand. ‘ Woman,’ he 
asked, ‘ is thy husband within ? ’— ‘ He is within,’ replied I ; 

‘ he is there, combing the fair hair of our little Nicholas, and 
caressing him the while that he may not cry. Do not go in, O 
bright and terrible youth, thou wilt frighten our little child ! ’ 
But the man with shining white wings heeded not my words. 
He went in. I struggled to prevent him, O my husband ! I 
struggled ; but he was stronger than I. He passed into our 
home ; he darted on thee, O my beloved ! and struck thee with 
his sword. He struck thee, the father of our little Nicholas. 
And here, here is our little son, our Nicholas, that he would 
also have killed.” At these words she threw herself sobbing 
on the corpse of her husband, and it was some time before the 
women standing by could bring her round. But she had 
hardly recovered before she began afresh, and addressed her 
dead husband again. She asked him how she could live 
without him ; how she could protect his children without his 
strong arm to help ; she recalled the first days of their mar- 
riage, how dearly they had loved each other ; how, together, 
they had watched over the infancy of their two little children ; 
and she only ceased when her strength utterly failed once 
more, and she lay by the corpse in a swoon like death itself. 

Occasionally there is some one among the assemblage of 
mourners who has also lately lost a beloved one, and whose 
full hearts yet yearn for the sympathy in their griefs or joys 
which the dead were ever ready to give, while they were yet 
living. They take up the strain ; and, in a form of song 
used from time immemorial, they conjure the dead lying 
before them to be the messenger of the intelligence they wish 
to send to him, who is gone away for ever. A similar super- 
stition is prevalent in the Highlands, and every one remem- 
bers Mrs. Hemans’s pathetic little poem on this subject. 

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Modern Greek Songs 

It is rather too abrupt a turn from the deep pathos of the 
faithful love implied by this superstition, to a story of some- 
thing of a similar kind, which fell under the observation of a 
country minister in Lancashire, well known to some friends 
of mine. A poor man lay a-dying, but still perfectly sensible 
and acute. A woman of his acquaintance came to see him, 
who had lately lost her husband, and who was imbued with 
the idea mentioned above. “ Bill,” said she, “ where thou 
art bound to thou’lt maybe see our Tummas ; be sure thou tell 
him we have getted th’ wheel o’ the shandry mended, and 
it’s mostly as good as new ; and mind thou say’st we’re getten 
on vary weel without him ; he may as weel think so, poor 
chap ! ” To which Bill made answer, “ Why woman ! dost 
’oo think I’se have nought better to do than go clumping up 
and down the sky a-searching for thy Tummas ? ” To those 
who have lived in Lancashire the word “ clumping ” exactly 
suggests the kind of heavy walk of the country people who 
wear the thick wooden clogs common in that county. 

But let us jump (like Dr. Faustus) out of Lancashire into 
Greece. In that country some of the people around the 
corpse are not content with sending messages to their dead 
friends ; they place flowers and other tokens of remembrance 
upon the body, entreating the last deceased whose remains 
he before them to bear their flowers and presents to those 
who have gone before. 

All these messages and these adieus are expressed in 
song ; nor do they cease until the body is laid in the grave. 
For a year afterwards his relations are only allowed to sing 
myriologia ; any other kind of song, however pious or 
pathetic, is prohibited by custom. The anniversary of the 
death is kept by a final gathering together of the friends, who 
go in procession to the grave, and once more chant their 
farewells. If a Greek dies far away from Greece, they sub- 
stitute an effigy for the real corpse, round which they 
assemble, to which they bid farewell, but with an aggrava- 
tion of sorrow and despair ; inasmuch as he has died far from 
his own bright land. But perhaps the most touching of the 

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Modern Greek Songs 

myriologia are those addressed by the mothers to the infants 
they have lost. When the child dies very young no one but 
the mother sings the myriologia. It is hers, and she belongs 
to it. The tie between them was too mysteriously close to 
allow a stranger to intermeddle with her grief. But her lost 
child takes the form of every pretty thing in nature in her 
mind. It is a broken flower, a young bird fallen out of the 
nest and killed, a little yearling lamb lying dead by the side 
of its mother. It is the exclusive right of women to sing the 
myriologia. The men bid farewell to their companion and 
friend in a few simple words of prose, kissing the mouth of 
the deceased ere they leave the house. But two centuries 
ago, among the mountains of Greece, the shepherds sang 
the myriologia over each other. 

The original significance of the custom is dying out even 
now. Women are hired to express an assumed grief in 
formal verses, where formerly the anguish of the nearest and 
dearest gave them the gift of improvisation. Before I go on 
to explain the character and subject of the occasional songs, 
I had perhaps better mention what class of men are the 
means of their circulation among the peasantry of Greece, as 
well as through the islands of the Archipelago. There are no 
beggars in these countries, excepting the blind; all others 
would think it shame to live by alms, with their blue and 
sunny sky above them, and their fertile soil beneath their 
feet. But the blind are a privileged class ; they go from 
house to house, receiving a ready welcome at each, for they 
are wandering minstrels, and have been so ever since 
Homer’s time. Some of them have learnt by heart an 
immense number of songs ; and all know a large collection. 
Their memory is their stock in trade, their means of living ; 
they never stay long in any one place, but traverse Greece 
from end to end, and have a wonderful knack in adapting 
their choice of songs to the character of the inhabitants of 
the place where they chant them. They generally prefer the 
simple villagers as audience, to the more sophisticated towns- 
people ; and, in the towns, they hang about the suburbs 

480 


Modern Greek Songs 

rather than enter into the busy streets in the centre. They 
know, half by experience half by instinct, that the most 
ignorant part of a population is always the least questioning, 
and the most susceptible of impressions. The Turks stalk 
past these blind minstrels with the most supreme and un- 
moved indifference ; but the Greek welcomes them affection- 
ately, particularly at those village feasts which are called 
paneghyris, and which would fall as flat as Hamlet without 
the part of Hamlet, if there were not several blind singers 
present. They accompany themselves on the lyre, a five- 
stringed instrument, played with a bow. 

These minstrels are divided into two sets; those who 
merely remember what they have learnt from others, and 
those who compose ballads of their own, in addition to their 
stores of memory. These latter, in their long and quiet walks 
through country which they know to be wild and grand, 
although they never more may see it, “ turn inward,” and 
recall all that they have heard that has excited their curiosity, 
or stirred their imagination either in the traditional history of 
their native land, or in the village accounts of some local 
hero. Some of the minstrels spread the fame of men whose 
deeds would have been unknown beyond the immediate 
mountain neighbourhood of each, from shore to shore. In 
fact these blind beggars are the novelists and the historians of 
modem Greece ; but if one subject be more clear to them than 
another, it is always the deeds of arms of the Klephts ; the 
Adam Bells, and Clyne o’ the Cloughs, or perhaps still more 
the Bobin Hoods, of Greece. All these songs are chanted 
to particular airs. The poet must be also his own musician : 
if he can also improvise he is a fully-accomplished minstrel. 
There was one who lived at the end of the last century at 
Auspelatria in Thessaly, under the shadow of Mount Ossa. 
His name was Gavoyanius, or John the Blind. He was 
extremely old ; and, in the exercise of his talents, he had 
amassed considerable wealth; so at the time when the 
account was given he lived at home at ease, and received the 
visits of those who wished to hear and were ready to pay for 

481 2 1 


Modern Greek Songs 

his songs. The Albanian soldiers of the Pasha — degenerate 
Greeks who served the Turk, and who could find no one to 
chant their exploits, voluntarily or gratuitously — used to pay 
John the Blind to sing their fame : the higher the praise, the 
greater the pay. 

I have alluded to the paneghyris. They are feasts in 
honour of the patron saint of some one hamlet where the 
meeting is held, all the surrounding villages turning out 
their inhabitants to come and make merry. In short they 
must bear a close resemblance to the wakes in England ; 
for they are always held on the Sunday after the saint’s day 
to whom the parish church is dedicated. But there are 
some slight differences between a Greek paneghyri and 
English wakes ; the Eastern festival is gayer and more 
simple in character. The evening before a paneghyri, each 
of the neighbouring villages comes trooping in to the place 
of rendezvous; the people are dressed in their Sunday’s 
best, and march along to merry music. When they arrive 
at their destination they make haste to pitch their tents ; 
and those who are not rich enough to possess the necessary 
canvas pluck branches of trees, and make themselves a leafy 
covering to protect themselves from the dew and the moon’s 
beams ; both of which are held in the East to be injurious 
to health. On the day of the feast every one goes to the 
service in church in honour of the patron saint. When 
they come back to their houses or tents there is no general 
feast for everybody to share. Each family prepares its 
separate meal ; the greater number in the open air, and 
nothing is to be seen (or smelt) but roasting mutton and 
broiling lamb. After dinner the dancing begins ; every 
village dances by itself, and makes merry by itself until 
supper time. After that they pay visits to each other, or 
listen to the blind minstrels who accompany each set of 
villagers. 

The little Homers of the day find an attentive and 
numerous audience in the groups who sit round them in the 
cool of the evening; some on the soft turf, crushing below 

482 


Modern Greek Songs 

them the blue hyacinth which makes the ground purple and 
odorous hereabouts; some on pieces of rock, all listening 
with unquestioning eagerness ; all, for the time, forgetting 
that the Turk is their neighbour. Many ballads are com- 
posed expressly for these occasions ; nor can there be a 
surer mode of securing their popularity. One sung for the 
first time at a paneghyri is circulated the next day through 
eight or ten villages. Some of these songs are literally 
ballads in the old Provengal sense of the words; they are 
exclusively sung by the dancers as they dance. Indeed it 
is a characteristic of the Greek popular poetry, that it is so 
frequently intended to be sung while the singers are dancing. 
The dancing is, in fact, with them, a pretty mimicry of the 
emotions and movements which the song describes. Every 
province has its own peculiar dance and ballad, appropriate 
to the district from time immemorial. This custom, of 
singing and dancing in concert, seems almost to be the 
origin of the serious part of our modern pantomime. Of 
course the dance is not a mere mimicry of the ballad sung ; 
but the character of the dance depends on that of the song. 
If the latter relates to deeds of arms, or feats of warriors, 
the movements are abrupt and decided ; if it be a love song 
(and this description is condemned and despised by the 
austere mountaineers), the motions of the corresponding 
dance are soft and graceful. 

Of the former species of song (those relating to deeds of 
arms), the story almost invariably has a Klepht for a hero. 
(Klepht signifies “freebooter,” a more picturesque name 
than “ thief,” which is, I believe, the literal translation). But 
we must not judge of everything by its name. To explain 
something of the true character of the Klephts : When the 
Turks first conquered the Greek provinces, there were always 
native mountaineers who refused to acknowledge the Mussul- 
man government, and considered the Turkish possession of 
the lands of the Gresks, their forefathers, as nothing less 
than robbery. These mountain peasantry came down in 
armed bands upon the fertile plains and the luxurious 

483 


Modern Greek Songs 

towns, and stripped the Turks and those who had quietly 
submitted to their sway, whenever they could ; it was from 
those who were thus robbed, that the mountaineers received 
the name of Klephts. But our Saxon ancestors did the 
same to the Normans ; Robin Hood was an English Klepht, 
taking only what he thought was unjustly acquired, and 
unfairly held. The Turks found it rather difficult to make 
war against these guerillas ; they fled to wild and rocky 
recesses of the mountains when pursued. So the wise and 
cautious conquerers tried to make friends, and partially suc- 
ceeded. In return for certain privileges, a portion of the 
mountaineers organised themselves into a kind of militia, 
called Armatolians ; but there was always a rough and stern 
remnant who persevered in their independent and Klephtic 
habits. And in course of time, many of the Armatolians, 
oppressed by the Turks, who no longer feared them, returned 
to their primitive state of hostility against their conquerors, 
began to pillage afresh, and resumed the name of Klepht. 
Affront an Armatolian captain of the militia, bound to pre- 
serve order, or let him be unjustly treated by a Turk, and he 
instantly turned Klepht, and robbed with more zest and 
enjoyment than he had ever experienced in preserving the 
peace. So, as may easily be imagined, the Klephts who 
were weak yesterday, may be strong to-day, both in numbers 
and in intelligence respecting the movements of the great 
convoys appointed to guard treasures. They lived in wild 
places, with their arms in their hands ; sometimes on the 
brink of absolute starvation, but rarely forgetting that they 
were Greeks, and might only steal from the Turks. The 
flocks and herds of the Turks were carried off in the night ; 
but seldom those of the Greeks, unless indeed they had 
made positive friends with those of the oppressors who lived 
among them. Sometimes an unlucky aga would be taken 
prisoner by the Klephts, and would have to pay a high ran- 
som for his liberty. Again, they were like Robin Hood and 
his merry men in the hatred they bore tc the caloyers or 
monks ; and these last were not slow in avenging themselves ; 

484 


Modern Greek Songs 

whenever they could, they gave information to the Turks 
where they might surprise a half-starved party of Klephts. 

Sometimes the Klephts, when hard pressed by starvation 
and an ever-watchful enemy, would send word to a village 
that unless a certain sum was paid in a place specified by a 
particular day, all the houses should be burnt. The poor 
villagers were between two fires. If they gave to the 
Klephts, the Turks took from them all their possessions ; 
if they did not give to the Klephts after such a notice, the 
menace was sure to be fulfilled. So, before they gave to 
the Klephts, the warning had usually to be repeated. If 
they showed no sign of acquiescence after the second notice, 
the third and last came on a piece of paper burnt at all the 
four comers; and then the poor villagers dared no longer 
refuse. They gave what they were asked for ; the Turks 
took all the rest of their possessions, and they were turned 
empty and naked upon the world to become Klephts if they 
liked. 

The Klephts kept a constant watch against surprises all 
day long. At night their mountain paths were all but 
inaccessible, and they might sleep in the open air wrapped 
up in goatskins, on beds made of leaves. When they set 
out on a predatory expedition, it was always by night — the 
darker and the more stormy the better for their purpose. 
In their mountain hiding-places they practised shooting, 
until they acquired what they supposed to be extraordinary 
skill as marksmen. They had rifles of an unusual length, 
with which some of the most expert could hit an egg hung 
by a thread to a branch of a tree at a distance of two 
hundred paces. Others yet more skilful could send a bullet 
through a ring hardly larger ; and this gave rise to a pro- 
verbial expression for a good marksman — “ he can thread 
the ring with a bullet.” The Klephts by long practice 
acquired such quickness of sight that many of them could, 
by watching from whence the flash of an enemy’s musket 
fire proceeded, pick out the man, and lay him low with their 
rifle. They called this “ firing upon fire.” Besides all 

48s 


Modern Greek Songs 

these exercises, the Klephts practised some which came 
down to them from the ancient Greeks. One of the 
principal of these was the game of the disc, which was to be 
thrown : he who hurled it the furthest was the conqueror. 
The Klephts were famous leapers ; and wonderful stories 
are told of them in this capacity. One Klephtic hero, the 
Captain Niko Isaras, is said on good authority to have 
cleared seven horses standing abreast. There is another 
anecdote on record of a man who leaped over three waggons 
loaded with stones to the height of seven or eight feet. 
Their feats in running were equally marvellous ; not to say 
incredible. They tell of one man who literally ran so fast 
that “ his heels touched his ears.” Fortunio’s servant 
Lightfoot was a fool to this. But there is no doubt that the 
Klepht was unrivalled in his power of making long marches. 
They were also capable of enduring extraordinary hunger. 
Combats of three days and nights, during which the Klephts 
neither ate, drank nor slept, were not unusual among them, 
according to M. Fauriel. The same endurance was known 
in bearing the torture which surely awaited them if taken 
alive. Having their limbs crushed by repeated blows from 
a blacksmith’s hammer was a common mode of execution ; 
there were others, more rare, too horrible to be mentioned. 
No wonder that it became a favourite toast among the 
Klephts to wish each other “ a sure hit from a bullet.” 

But what was most injurious to their sense of honour 
was the dread of having their heads, after death, exposed to 
all the insults which the Turks could devise. The entreaty 
of the wounded Klepht to his comrades was to cut off his 
head, and bear it far away to their mountain fastnesses far 
out of the reach of the Turks. Thus, in one of their songs, 
the Klepht says, “ O my brother, cut off my head ; let not 
the Turkish passers-by see my shame. My enemies will 
wag their heads and laugh ; but my mother — my mother 
will die of grief.” All honour attended the death of him 
who was slain in battle. He was called a “ victim,” and the 
survivors mourned him with pride ; whereas he who died of 

4S6 


Modern Greek Songs 

illness on his bed was spoken of as the “ corps creve” and he 
was looked upon with a kind of shame and repugnance. 
But the Klephts in the midst of their wild and barbarous 
life preserved many chivalrous and noble feelings. They 
might be simple— they were not vulgar ; they might be fierce 
—they were never cruel. They were full of delicate honour 
in their treatment of their female captives ; even when these 
were the wives or daughters of those who had most deeply 
injured and outraged relations of their own. A captain of a 
band of Klephts who insulted a Turkish woman taken 
prisoner, was immediately killed by his own soldiers as 
unworthy to command brave men. Their songs are full of 
allusions to the respect with which their female prisoners are 
treated. Images of the Virgin hung up in some rocky cleft 
made their chapel, where they performed their devotions 
with the utmost piety. Some of the Klephts made pilgrimages 
to Jerusalem on foot ; their rifles on their backs. No Klepht 
was ever known to be a renegade. Whatever horrors awaited 
him if he refused to become a Mussulman, he remained true 
to his faith. But, indeed, he pined away and died if he was 
forced to leave his wild rocks, and the mountain gorges 
which were his home. Up in these homes, women cooked 
the flesh of goats and kids, roasting them whole in the open 
air ; and they had always secret friends in the fertile plains, 
who furnished them with wine in abundance to wash down 
their Homeric feasts. Mount Olympus was the especial 
hold of the Klephts, and although not so high as some of 
the Alps or the Pyrenees, it is uninhabitable in the winter 
on account of the snow. The poor Klephts were often 
obliged to descend. They first hid their arms and ammuni- 
tion by wrapping them well up in waxen cloth, and covering 
them over with stones. Then they dispersed and sought 
some hospitable shelter among the Ionian islanders, under 
the protection of the Venetian government. But they never 
mixed themselves up with the Greek population that they 
had to pass through ; they preserved their national dress, 
their proud and haughty bearing, their brilliant complexion, 

487 


Modern Greek Songs 

which made their great beauty yet more distinguished. The 
Greeks looked on them with admiration ; these were the 
men who dared to defy the Turks ; in each Greek cottage 
there hung a rude portrait of some Klephtic hero, and their 
fame was the staple subject of all the popular songs. It 
was the Klephts who contributed mainly to the establishment 
of the kingdom of Greece. 

The Greeks would shudder if they thought that they pre- 
served any of the old Pagan superstitions ; nevertheless, with- 
out their knowing it, much of the heathen belief is mingled with 
their traditional observances. They speak of their Hellenic 
forefathers as giants who once inhabited the country where 
they now dwell. These giants were as tall as the highest 
poplar trees ; and, if they fell down, they died, not having 
power to get up again. The most terrible oath among these 
old Pagans, according to the modern Greek tradition, was 
“ May I fall if it was not so.” Many of the superstitions 
derived from their ancestors are common to all nations, such 
as the necessity for blessing themselves if they sneezed, to 
prevent the entrance of an evil spirit at such times ; the evil 
eye ; the presage of death by the barking of dogs, &c. Every 
one knows how famous or infamous Thessaly was in ancient 
times for its magicians. Thessaly is still the head quarters 
of witches and wizards, who (so says popular report) can 
draw the moon out of the heavens to do their bidding (a 
remnant of the old invocations to Hecate), and to turn the 
moon into a cow, from which they draw milk that has irre- 
sistible power of enchantment. All over Greece they believe 
in sorcery. The Hamadryads, the Nymphs, the Nereids, 
&c., under which names the ancient Greeks personified the 
different objects of nature, are gone — their very names for- 
gotten by their descendants, who, nevertheless, believe that 
every tree, and rock, and fountain, has its guardian genius, 
who takes any shape he likes, but most frequently that of 
a serpent or a dragon, and is always on the watch to defend 
the object which is put under his care, and with the existence 
of which his own is bound up. 

488 


Modern Greek Songs 

The plague is personified, as I think I have read is also 
the case in some of the country towns of Scotland. My idea is 
that Hugh Miller mentions it somewhere, as a blind woman, 
going from house to house, giving death to all whom she 
touches ; but, as she can only grope along by the sides of 
the walls, those escape harmless who keep in the middle of 
the streets, or the centre of rooms. This is probably a 
modern superstition. But again, the plague is personified 
as the ancient fates, in many places. No longer a blind 
woman, but as a terrible Three, does it come to a doomed 
town. One awful woman holds a roll of paper, on which 
she writes the name of those appointed to die ; another has 
the shears with which she snaps the thread of life, and the 
third carries the besom of destruction, with which to sweep 
the dead forth from their habitations. The Furies are no 
longer known ; but every one remembers how the attempt 
was made to propitiate them by calling them the Eumenides ; 
just as in Scotland the fairies, who stole children and per- 
formed all manner of small mischief, were called “ the good 
people.” There is the same desire now shown to conciliate 
the small-pox, which is to this day a terrible scourge among 
Greek families. The small-pox is personified as a woman 
scowling on children, but who may be mollified by calling 
her, and invoking her under a Greek name which means 
“ she who mercifully spares ; ” the small-pox indeed is 
universally spoken of as Eulogia — the “ well spoken-of,” she 
whom all are bound under pain of terrible penalties to name 
with respect. 

“ Some of their superstitions are a confused blending 
together of several ancient beliefs. For instance, it is said 
that round the summit of Mount Scardamyla three beautiful 
maidens dance perpetually. They appear at first of unearthly 
beauty, but they have the legs and feet of goats. Whoever 
draws near to that enchanted spot is first compelled to kiss 
them, and then is torn to pieces, and thrown down from the 
rocks. This is evidently a mixture of three old beliefs : the 
Oreads, the Satyrs, and the Graces. 

489 


Modern Greek Songs 

Death is personified under the form of a stern old man, 
who comes to summon the living to leave the light of day. 
He is called Charon, although his office is more properly 
that of Mercury. He can transform himself into a bird or an 
animal; in fact take any shape under which he can best 
surprise those who do not think enough about him. He 
has no power over those who are constantly remembering 
his existence. 

Such are some of the national customs and superstitions 
of which M. Fauriel gives an account before introducing his 
songs to the reader’s notice. The translation of the ballads 
into French is literal ; from it we may judge of the racy and 
individual flavour of the ballads themselves. Abrupt, wild 
and dramatic are they ; not unlike, in vividness of painting 
and quick transition from one part to another, to some of 
Robert Browning’s smaller poems. They are full of colour ; 
there is no description of feeling ; the actions of the dramatis 
'persona?, tell plainly enough how they felt. Reading any 
good ballad is like eating game ; and almost every thing else 
seems poor and tasteless after it. 




490 


COMPANY MANNERS 


Victor Cousin, the French philosopher, has undertaken a 
new task within the last few years. Whether as a relaxation 
from, or a continuation of, his study of metaphysics, I do 
not know, but he has begun to write the biographies of 
some of the celebrated French women of the seventeenth 
century. In making out his list, he is careful to distinguish 
between authoresses and femmes d’ esprit ranking the latter 
infinitely the higher in every point of view. The first 
of his series is Jacqueline Pascal, the sister of Blaise, known 
at Port Eoyal as the Sister Euphemia — a holy, pure, and 
sainted woman. The second whom the grave philosopher 
has chosen as a subject for his biography is that beautiful, 
splendid sinner of the Fronde, the fair-haired Duchess de 
Longueville. He draws the pure and perfect outlines of 
Jacqueline Pascal’s character with a severe and correct 
pencil ; he paints the lovely Duchess with the fond, admiring 
exaggeration of a lover. The wits of Paris, in consequence, 
have written the following epitaph for him : “ Here lies 
Victor Cousin, the great philosopher, in love with the 
Duchess de Longueville, who died a century and a half 
before he was born.” 

Even the friends of this Duchess, insignificant in them- 
selves, become dear and illustrious to Cousin for her fair 
sake. It is not long since he contributed an article on 
Madame de Sable to the “ Revue des Deux Mondes,” which 
has since been published separately, and which has suggested 
the thoughts and fancies that I am now going to lay before 
the patient public. This Madame de Sable was, in her 

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Company Manners 

prime, an habitual guest at the Hdtel Rambouillet, the 
superb habitation which was the centre of the witty and 
learned as well as the pompous and pedantic society of 
Paris, in the days of Louis the Thirteenth. When these 
gatherings had come to an end after Madame de Ram- 
bouillet’s death, and before Moliere had turned the tradition 
thereof into exquisite ridicule, there were several attempts to 
form circles that should preserve some of the stately refine- 
ment of the Hdtel Rambouillet. Mademoiselle de Scudery 
had her Saturdays ; but, an authoress herself, and collecting 
around her merely clever people, without regard to birth or 
breeding, M. Cousin does not hold the idea of her Saturdays 
in high esteem. Madame de Sable, a gentlewoman by birth : 
intelligent enough doubtless from having been an associate 
of Menage, Yoiture, Madame de Sevigne, and others in the 
grand hotel (whose meetings must have been delightful 
enough at the time, though that wicked Moliere has stepped 
between us and them, and we can only see them as he 
chooses us to do) : Madame de Sable, friend of the resplen- 
dent fair-haired Duchess de Longueville, had weekly meetings 
which M. Cousin ranks far above the more pretentious Satur- 
days of Mademoiselle de Scudery. In short, the last page 
of his memoir of Madame de Sable — where we matter-of-fact 
English people are apt to put in praise of the morals and 
religion of the person whose life we have been writing — is 
devoted to this acme of praise. Madame de Sable had all 
the requisites which enabled her tenir un salon with honour 
to herself and pleasure to her friends. 

Apart from this crowning accomplishment, the good 
French lady seems to have been commonplace enough. She 
was well-born, well-bred, and the company she kept must 
have made her tolerably intelligent. She was married to a 
dull husband, and doubtless had her small flirtations after she 
early became a widow ; M. Cousin hints at them, but they 
were never scandalous or prominently before the public. Past 
middle life, she took to the process of “ making her salva- 
tion,” and inclined to the Port-Royalists. She was given to 

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Company Manners 

liking dainty things to eat, in spite of her Jansenism. She 
had a female friend that she quarrelled with, off and on, 
during her life. And (to wind up something like Lady 
O’ Looney, of famous memory) she knew how tenir un salon 
M. Cousin tells us that she was remarkable in no one 
thing or quality, and attributes to that single, simple fact 
the success of her life. 

Now, since I have read these memoirs of Madame de 
Sable, I have thought much and deeply thereupon. At first, 
I was inclined to laugh at the extreme importance which 
was attached to this art of “ receiving company,” — no, that 
translation will not do ! — “ holding a drawing-room ” is even 
worse, because that implies the state and reserve of royalty ; 
— shall we call it the art of “ Sableing ” ? But when I 
thought of my experience in English society — of the evenings 
dreaded before they came, and sighed over in recollection, 
because they were so ineffably dull — I saw that, to Sable 
well, did require, as M. Cousin implied, the union of many 
excellent qualities and not-to-be-disputed little graces. I 
asked some French people if they could give me the recipe, 
for it seemed most likely to be traditional, if not still extant 
in their nation. I offer to you their ideas, fragmentary 
though they be ; and then I will tell you some of my own ; 
at last, perhaps, with the addition of yours, oh most worthy 
readers ! we may discover the lost art of Sableing. 

Said the French lady : “A woman to be successful in 
Sableing must be past youth, yet not past the power of 
attracting. She must do this by her sweet and gracious 
manners, and quick, ready tact in perceiving those who 
have not had their share of attention, or leading the con- 
versation away from any subject which may give pain to 
any one present.” “ Those rules hold good in England,” 
said I. My friend went on : “ She should never be promi- 
nent in anything; she should keep silence as long as any 
one else will talk ; but, when conversation flags, she should 
throw herself into the breach with the same spirit with 
which I notice that the young ladies of the house, where a 

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Company Manners 

ball is given, stand quietly by till the dancers are tired, and 
then spring into the arena, to carry on the spirit and the 
music till the others are ready to begin again.” 

“ But,” said the French gentleman, “ even at this time, 
when subjects for conversation are wanted, she should rather 
suggest than enlarge — ask questions rather than give her 
own opinions.” 

“ To be sure,” said the lady. “ Madame Becamier, 
whose salons were the most perfect of this century, always 
withheld her opinions on books, or men, or measures, until 
all around her had given theirs ; then she, as it were, collected 
and harmonised them, saying a kind thing here, and a gentle 
thing there, and speaking ever with her own quiet sense, till 
people the most oppressed learnt to understand each other’s 
point of view, which it is a great thing for opponents to do.” 

“ Then the number of the people whom you receive is 
another consideration. I should say not less than twelve, 
or more than twenty,” continued the gentleman. “ The 
evenings should be appointed — say weekly — fortnightly at 
the beginning of January, which is our season. Fix an 
early hour for opening the room. People are caught then 
in their freshness, before they become exhausted by other 
parties.” 

The lady spoke, “ For my part, I prefer catching my 
friends after they have left the grander balls or receptions. 
One hears then the remarks, the wit, the reason, and the 
satire which they had been storing up during their evening 
of imposed silence or of ceremonious speaking.” 

“ A little good-humoured satire is a very agreeable sauce,” 
replied the gentleman, “ but it must be good-humoured, and 
the listeners must be good-humoured ; above all, the conver- 
sation must be general, and not the chat, chat, chat up in a 
corner, by which the English so often distinguish themselves. 
You do not go into society to exchange secrets with your 
intimate friends ; you go to render yourselves agreeable to 
every one present, and to help all to pass a happy evening.” 
“ Strangers should not be admitted,” said the lady, taking 
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Company Manners 

up the strain. “ They would not start fair with the others ; 
they would be ignorant of the allusions that refer to conver- 
sations on the previous evenings ; they would not understand 
what shall I call it — slang ? I mean those expressions 
having relation to past occurrences, or bygone witticisms 
common to all those who are in the habit of meeting.” 

“ Madame de Duras and Madame Becamier never made 
advances to any stranger. Their salons were the best that 
Paris has known in this generation. All who wished to be 
admitted, had to wait and prove their fitness by being 
agreeable elsewhere ; to earn their diploma, as it were, 
among the circle of these ladies’ acquaintances ; and, at 
last, it was a high favour to be received by them.” 

“ They missed the society of many celebrities by adhering 
so strictly to this unspoken rule,” said the gentleman. 

“ Bah ! ” said the lady. “ Celebrities ! what has one to 
do with them in society? As celebrities, they are simply 
bores. Because a man has discovered a planet, it does not 
follow that he can converse agreeably, even on his own 
subjects ; often people are drained dry by one action or 
expression of their lives — drained dry for all the purposes of 
a ‘ salon.’ The writer of books, for instance, cannot afford 
to talk twenty pages for nothing, so he is either profoundly 
silent, or else he gives you the mere rinsings of his mind. 
I am speaking now of him as a mere celebrity, and justifying 
the wisdom of the ladies we were speaking of, in not seeking 
after such people ; indeed, in being rather shy of them. 
Some of their friends were the most celebrated people of 
their day, but they were received in their old capacity of 
agreeable men ; a higher character, by far. Then,” said 
she, turning to me, “ I believe that you English spoil the 
perfection of conversation by having your rooms brilliantly 
lighted for an evening, the charm of which depends on what 
one hears, as for an evening when youth and beauty are to 
display themselves among flowers and festoons, and every 
kind of pretty ornament. I would never have a room affect 
people as being dark on their first entrance into it ; but 

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Company Manners 

there is a kind of moonlight as compared to sunlight, in 
which people talk more freely and naturally ; where shy 
people will enter upon a conversation without a dread of 
every change of colour or involuntary movement being seen 
— just as we are always more confidential over a fire than 
anywhere else — as women talk most openly in the dimly- 
lighted bed-room at curling-time." 

“ Away with your shy people," said the gentleman. 
“ Persons who are self-conscious, thinking of an involuntary 
redness or paleness, an unbecoming movement of the 
countenance, more than the subject of which they are 
talking, should not go into society at all. But, because 
‘women are so much more liable to this nervous weakness 
than men, the preponderance of people in a salon should 
always be on the side of the men." 

I do not think I gained more hints as to the lost art from 
my French friends. Let us see if my own experience in 
England can furnish any more ideas. 

First, let us take the preparations to be made before our 
house, our room, or our lodgings can be made to receive 
society. Of course I am not meaning the preparations 
needed for dancing or musical evenings. I am taking those 
parties which have pleasant conversation and happy social 
intercourse for their affirmed intention. They may be 
dinners, suppers, tea — I don’t care what they are called, 
provided their end is defined. If your friends have not 
dined, and it suits you to give them a dinner, in the name 
of Lucullus, let them dine ; but take care that there shall be 
something besides the mere food and wine to make their 
fattening agreeable at the time and pleasant to remember, 
otherwise you had better pack up for each his portions of 
the dainty dish, and send it separately, in hot- water trays, 
so that he can eat comfortably behind a door, like Sancho 
Panza, and have done with it. And yet I don’t see why we 
should be like ascetics ; I fancy there is a grace of prepara- 
tion, a sort of festive trumpet-call, that is right and proper 
to distinguish the day on which we receive our friends from 

496 


Company Manners 

\ common days, unmarked by such white stones. The 
thought and care we take for them to set before them of our 
best, may imply some self-denial on our less fortunate days. 
I have been in houses where all, from the scullion-maid 
upward, worked double tides gladly, because “ Master’s 
friends ” were coming ; and everything must be nice, and 
good, and all the rooms must look bright, and clean, and 
pretty. And, as “a merry heart goes all the way,” pre- 
parations made in this welcoming, hospitable spirit, never 
seem to tire any one half so much as where servants 
instinctively feel that it has been said in the parlour, “ We 
must have so-and-so,” or “ Oh, dear ! we have never had 
the so and-so’s.” Yes, I like a little pomp, and luxury, and 
stateliness, to mark our happy days of receiving friends as a 
festival ; but I do not think I would throw my power of 
procuring luxuries solely into the eating and drinking line. 

My friends would probably be surprised (some wear caps, 
and some wigs) if I provided them with garlands of flowers, 
after the manner of the ancient Greeks ; but, put flowers on 
the table (none of your shams, wax or otherwise ; I prefer 
an honest wayside root of primroses, in a common vase of 
white ware, to the grandest bunch of stiff-rustling artificial 
rarities in a silver epergne). A flower or two by the side 
of each person’s plate would not be out of the way, as 
to expense, and would be a very agreeable, pretty piece of 
mute welcome. Cooks and scullion-maids, acting in the 
sympathetic spirit I have described, would do their very best, 
from boiling the potatoes well, to sending in all the dishes 
in the best possible order. I think I would have every 
imaginary dinner sent up on the “ Original ” Mr. Walker’s 
plan ; each dish separately, hot and hot. I have an idea 
that, when I go to live in Utopia (not before next Christmas), 

I will have a kind of hot- water sideboard, such as I think I 
have seen in great houses, and that nothing shall appear on 
the table but what is pleasant to the eye. However simple 
the food, I would do it and my friends (and may I not add the 
Giver ?) the respect of presenting it at table as well-cooked, 

497 2 K 


Company Manners 

as eatable, as wholesome as my poor means allowed; 
and to this end, rather than to a variety of dishes, would I 
direct my care. We have no associations with beef and 
mutton ; geese may remind us of the Capitol, and peacocks 
of Juno; a pigeon-pie, of “ the simplicity of Venus’ doves,” 
but who thinks of the leafy covert which has been her home 
in life, when he sees a roasted hare ? Now, flowers as an 
ornament do lead our thoughts away from their present 
beauty and fragrance. I am almost sure Madame de Sable 
had flowers in her salon ; and, as she was fond of dainties 
herself, I can fancy her smooth benevolence of character, 
taking delight in some personal preparations made in the 
morning for the anticipated friends of the evening. I can 
fancy her stewing sweetbreads in a silver saucepan, or 
dressing salad with her delicate, plump, white hands — not 
that I ever saw a silver saucepan. I was formerly ignorant 
enough to think that they were only used in the Sleeping 
Beauty’s kitchen, or in the preparations for the marriage of 
Riquet-with-the-Tuft ; but I have been assured that there 
are such things, and that they impart a most delicate flavour, 
or no flavour to the victuals cooked therein ; so I assert again, 
Madame de Sable cooked sweetbreads for her friends in a 
silver saucepan; but never to fatigue herself with those 
previous labours. She knew the true taste of her friends 
too well ; they cared for her, firstly, as an element in their 
agreeable evening — the silver saucepan in which they were 
all to meet ; the oil in which their several ingredients were 
to be softened of what was harsh or discordant — very 
secondary would be their interest in her sweetbreads. 

“ Of sweetbreads they’ll get mony an ane, 

Of Sabl6 ne’er anither.” 

But part of my care beforehand should go to the homely 
article of waiting. I should not mind having none at all ; a 
dumb waiter, pepper, salt, bread, and condiments within the 
reach or by the side of all. Little kindly attentions from 
one guest to another tend to take off the selfish character of 
the mere act of eating; and, besides, the guests would (or 

498 


Company Manners 

should) be too well educated, too delicate of tact, to interrupt 
a burst of wit, or feeling, or eloquence, as a mere footman 
often does with the perpetual “Sherry, or Madeira?” or 
with the names of those mysterious entremets that always 
remind me of a white kid glove that I once ate with 
Bechamel sauce, and found very tender and good, under 
the name of Oreilles de Yeau a-la-something, but which 
experiment I never wish to repeat. There is something 
graceful and kindly in the little attention by which one 
guest silently puts by his neighbour all that he may require. 
I consider it a better opening to ultimate friendship, if my 
unknown neighbour mutely passes me the salt, or silently 
understands that I like sugar to my soup, than if he had 
been introduced by his full name and title, and labelled with 
the one distinguishing action or book of his life, after the 
manner of some who are rather showmen than hosts. 

But, to return to the subject of waiting. I have always 
believed that the charm of those little suppers, famous from 
time immemorial as the delightful P.S. to operas, was that 
there was no formal waiting, or over- careful arrangement of 
the table ; a certain sweet neglect pervaded all, very com- 
patible with true elegance. The perfection of waiting is 
named in the story of the White Cat, where, if you remem- 
ber, the hero prince is waited upon by hands without bodies, 
as he sits at table with the White Cat, and is served with 
that delicate fricassee of mice. By hands without bodies 
I am very far from meaning hands without heads. Some 
people prefer female waiters ; foot-women, as it were. I 
have weighed both sides of the subject well in my mind, 
before sitting down to write this paper, and my verdict goes 
in favour of men; for, all other things being equal, their 
superior strength gives them the power of doing things 
without effort, and consequently with less noise than any 
woman. The quiet ease and solemn soundless movement 
of some men-servants is wonderful to watch. Last summer 
I was staying in a house served by such list-shod, soft- 
spoken, velvet-handed domestics, Qne day, the butler 

499 


Company Manners 

touched a spoon with a fork — the master of the house 
looked at him as Jupiter may have looked at Hebe, when 
she made that clumsy step. “No noise, sir, if you please ” ; 
and we, as well as the servant, were hushed into the solemn 
stillness of the room, and were graced and genteel, if not 
merry and sociable. Still, bursts and clashes, and clatters 
at the side-table, do disturb conversation ; and I maintain 
that for avoiding these, men-servants are better than women. 
Women have to add an effort to the natural exercise of what 
strength they possess before they can lift heavy things — 
sirloins of beef, saddles of mutton, and the like ; and they 
cannot calculate the additional force of such an effort, so 
down comes the dish and the mutton and all, with a sound 
and a splash that surprises us even more than the Phillis, 
who is neat-handed only when she has to do with things 
that require delicacy and lightness of touch, not struggle of 
arm. 

And, now I think of it, Madame de Sable must have 
taken the White Cat for her model; there must evidently 
have been the same noiseless ease and grace about the 
movements of both; the same purring, happy, inarticulate 
moments of satisfaction, when surrounded by pleasant 
circumstances, must have been uttered by both. My own 
mouth has watered before now at the account of that 
fricassee of mice prepared especially for the White Cat; 
and M. Cousin alludes more than once to Madame de 
Sable’s love for “ friandises.” Madame de Sable avoided 
the society of literary women, and so, I am sure, did the 
White Cat. Both had an instinctive sense of what was 
comfortable ; both loved home with tenacious affection ; 
and yet I am mistaken if each had not their own little 
private love of adventure — touches of the gipsy. 

The reason why I think Madame de Sable had this 
touch in her, is because she knew how tenir un salon. 
You do not see the connection between gipsyism and the 
art of being a good hostess — of receiving pleasantly. I do, 
but I am not sure if I can explain it. In the first place, 

5 °° 


Company Manners 

gipsies must be people of quick impulse and ready wit ; 
entering into fresh ideas and new modes of life with joyous 
ardour and energy, and fertile in expedients for extricating 
themselves from the various difficulties into which their 
wandering life leads them. They must have a lofty disregard 
for convenances, and yet a power of graceful adaptation. 
They evidently have a vivid sense of the picturesque, and 
a love of adventure, which, if it does not show itself in 
action, must show itself in sympathy with other’s doings. 
Now, which of these qualities would be out of place in 
Madame de Sable ? From what we read of the life of her 
contemporary, Madame de Sevigne, we see that impromptu 
expedients were necessary in those times, when the thought 
of the morning made the pleasure of the evening, and 
when people snatched their enjoyments from hand to 
mouth, as it were, while yet six- weeks -invitations were not. 
Now, I have noticed that in some parties where we were 
all precise and sensible, ice-bound under some indefinable 
stiff restraint, some little domestic contretemps, if frankly 
acknowledged by the hostess, has suddenly unloosed tongues 
and hearts in a supernatural manner ; 

“ The upper air bursts into life,” 

more especially if some unusual expedient had to be resorted 
to, giving the whole the flavour and zest of a picnic. Toast- 
ing bread in a drawing-room, coaxing up a half-extinguished 
fire by dint of brown sugar, newspapers, and pretty good- 
for-nothing bellows, turning a packing-case upside down 
for a seat, and covering in with a stray piece of velvet ; these 
are, I am afraid, the only things that can call upon us for 
unexpected exertion, now that all is arranged and re-arranged 
for every party a month beforehand. But I have lived in 
other times and other places ; I have been in the very heart 
and depth of Wales, within three miles of the house of the 
high sheriff of the county, who was giving a state dinner 
on a certain day, to which the gentleman with whom I was 
staying was invited. He was on the point of leaving his 

5oi 


Company Manners 

house in his little Norwegian carriole, and we were on the 
point of sitting down to dinner, when a man rode up in hot 
haste — a servant from the high sheriff’s came to beg for our 
joint off the spit. Fish, game, poultry — they had all the 
delicacies of their own land ; but the butcher from the 
nearest market-town had failed them, and at the last moment 
they had to send off a groom a-begging to their neighbours. 
My relation departed ignorant of our dinnerless state; but 
he came back in great delight with his party. After the 
soup and fish had been removed, there had been a long 
pause (the joint had got cold on its ride, and had to be 
re-warmed) ; a message was brought to the host, who had 
immediately confided his perplexity to his guests, and put it 
to the vote whether they would wait for the joint, or have 
the order of the courses changed, and eat the third before 
the second. Every one had enjoyed the merry dilemma ; the 
ice was broken, and all went on pleasantly and easily in a 
party where there was rather a heterogeneous mixture of 
politics and opinions. Dinner-parties in those days and in 
that part of Wales were somewhat regulated by the arrival 
of the little sailing vessels, which, having discharged their 
cargo at Bristol or Liverpool, brought back commissioned 
purchases for the different families. A chest of oranges for 
Mr. Williams or Mr. Wynn was a sure signal that before 
many days were over, Mr. Williams or Mr. Wynn would 
give a dinner-party ; strike while the iron was hot ; eat 
while the oranges were fresh. A man rode round to all the 
different houses when any farmer planned such a mighty 
event as killing a cow, to ask what part each family would 
take. Visiting acquaintances lived ten or twelve miles from 
each other, separated by bad and hilly roads ; the moon had 
always to be consulted before issuing invitations ; and then 
the mode of proceeding was usually something like this : 
The invited friends came to dinner at half-past five or six ; 
these were always those from the greatest distance — the 
nearer neighbours came later on in the evening. After the 
gentlemen had left the dining-room, it was cleared for 

502 


Company Manners 

dancing. The fragments of the dinner, prepared by ready 
cooks, served for supper ) tea was ready some time towards 
one or two, and the dancers went merrily on till a seven or 
eight o clock breakfast, after which they rode or drove home 
by broad daylight. I was never at one of these meetings, 
although staying in a house from which many went ; I was 
considered too young ; but, from what I heard, they were 
really excessively pleasant, sociable gatherings, although not 
quite entitled to be classed with Madame de Sable’s salons. 

To return to the fact that a slightly gipsy and impromptu 
character, either in the hostess, or in the arrangements, or 
in the amusements, adds a piquancy to the charm : let any 
one remember the agreeable private teas, that go on in 
many houses about five o’clock. I remember those in one 
house particularly, as remarkably illustrating what I am 
trying to prove. These teas were held in a large dismantled 
schoolroom : and a superannuated schoolroom is usually the 
most doleful chamber imaginable. I never saw this by full 
daylight ; I only know that it was lofty and large, that we 
went to it through a long gallery library, through which we 
never passed at any other time, the schoolroom having been 
accessible to the children in former days by a private stair- 
case — that great branches of trees swept against the windows 
with a long plaintive moan, as if tortured by the wind — 
that below in the stable-yard two Irish staghounds set up 
their musical bays to mingle with the outlandish Spanish 
which a parrot in the room continually talked out of the 
darkness in which its perch was placed — that the walls of 
the room seemed to recede as in a dream, and, instead of 
them, the flickering firelight painted tropical forests or 
Norwegian fiords, according to the will of our talkers. I 
know this tea was nominally private to the ladies, but that 
all the gentlemen strayed in most punctually by accident — 
that the fire was always in that state when somebody had to 
poke with the hard blows of despair, and somebody else to fetch 
in logs of wood from the basket outside and somebody else 
to unload his pockets of fir- bobs, which last were always 

503 


Company Manners 

efficacious, and threw beautiful dancing lights far and wide. 
And then there was a black kettle, long ago too old for 
kitchen use, that leaked and ran, and sputtered against the 
blue and sulphur- coloured flames, and did everything that 
was improper, but the water out of which made the best tea 
ia the world, which we drank out of unmatched cups, the 
relics of several schoolroom sets. We ate thick bread-and- 
butter in the darkness with a vigour of appetite which had 
quite disappeared at the well-lighted eight o’clock dinner. 
Who ate it I don’t know, for we stole from our places round 
the fireside to the tea-table, in comparative darkness, in the 
twilight, near the window, and helped ourselves, and came 
back on tiptoe to hear one of the party tell of wild enchanted 
spicy islands in the Eastern Archipelago, or buried cities in 
f arthest Mexico ; he used to look into the fire and draw and 
paint with words in a manner perfectly marvellous, and with 
an art which he had quite lost at the formal dinner-time. 
Our host was scientific ; a name of high repute ; he, too, 
told us of wonderful discoveries, strange surmises, glimpses 
into something far away and utterly dream-like. His son 
had been in Norway, fishing ; then, when he sat all splashed 
with hunting, he too, could tell of adventures in a natural, 
racy way. The girls, busy with their heavy kettle, and with 
their tea-making, put in a joyous word now and then. At 
dinner the host talked of nothing more intelligible than 
French mathematics ; the heir drawled out an infinite deal 
of nothing about the “ Shakespeare and musical glasses ” of 
the day ; the traveller gave us latitudes and longitudes, and 
rates of population, exports and imports, with the greatest 
precision ; and the girls were as pretty, helpless, inane fine 
ladies as you would wish to see. 

Speaking of wood fires reminds me of Madame de Sable’s 
fires. Of course they were of wood, being in Paris ; but I 
believe that, even if she had lived in a coal country, she 
would have burned wood by instinctive preference, as a 
lady I once knew, always ordered a lump of cannel coal to 
be brought up if ever her friends seemed silent and dull. A 

5°4 


Company Manners 

wood fire has a kind of spiritual, dancing, glancing life 
about it. It is an elfish companion, crackling, hissing, 
bubbling : throwing out beautiful jets of vivid, many- 
coloured flame. The best wood fires I know are those at 
Keswick. Making lead pencils is the business of the place ; 
and the cedar chips for scent, and the thinnings of the 
larch and fir plantations thereabouts for warm and brilliant 
light, make such a fire as Madame de Sable would have 
delighted in. 

Depend upon it, too, every seat in her salon was easy 
and comfortable of its kind. They might not be made of 
any rare kind of wood, nor covered very magnificently, but 
the bodies of her friends could rest and repose in them in 
easy unconstrained attitudes. No one can be agreeable, 
perched on a chair which does not afford space for proper 
support. I defy the most accomplished professional wit to 
go on uttering “ mots ” in a chair with a stiff hard, upright 
back, or with his legs miserably dangling. No ! Madame 
de Sable’s seats were commodious, and probably varied to 
suit all tastes ; nor was there anything in the shape of a 
large and cumbrous article of furniture placed right in the 
middle of her room, so as to prevent her visitors from 
changing their places, or drawing near to each other, or to 
the fire, if they so willed it. I imagine, likewise, that she 
had that placid, kindly manner, which would never show 
any loss of self-possession. I fancy that there was a 
welcome ready for all, even though some came a little 
earlier than they were expected. 

I was once very much struck by the perfect breeding of 
an old Welsh herb- woman, with whom I drank tea — a tea 
which was not tea, after all — an infusion of balm and black- 
currant leaves, with a pinch of lime blossom to give it a 
Pekoe flavour. She had boasted of the delicacy of this 
beverage to me on the previous day, and I had begged to 
be allowed to come and drink a cup with her. The only 
drawback was that she had but one cup, but she immediately 
bethought her that she had two saucers, one of which would 

505 


Company Manners 

do just as well, indeed better, than any cup. I was anxious 
to be in time, and so I was too early. She had not done 
dusting and rubbing when I arrived, but she made no fuss ; 
she was glad to see me, and quietly bade me welcome, 
though I had come before all was as she could have wished. 
She gave me a dusted chair, sate down herself with her 
kilted petticoats and working apron, and talked to me as if 
she had not a care or a thought on her mind but the enjoy- 
ment of the present time. By-and-by, in moving about the 
room, she slipped behind the bed curtain, still conversing. 
I heard the splash of water, and a drawer open and shut ; 
and then my hostess emerged spruce, and clean, and graced, 
but not one whit more agreeable or at her ease than she 
had been for the previous half-hour in her working dress. 

There are a set of people who put on their agreeableness 
with their gowns. Here, again, I have studied the subject, 
and the result is, that I find people of this description are 
more pleasant in society in their second-best than in their 
very best dresses. These last are new ; and the persons I 
am speaking of never feel thoroughly at home in them, 
never lose their consciousness of unusual finery until the 
first strain has been made. With their best gowns they 
put on an unusual fineness of language ; they say “ com- 
mence ” instead of “begin;” they inquire if they may 
“ assist,” instead of asking if they may “ help ” you to any- 
thing. And yet there are some, very far from vain or self- 
conscious, who are never so agreeable as when they have a 
dim, half-defined idea that they are looking their best — not 
in finery, but in air, arrangement, or complexion. I have a 
notion that Madame de Sable, with her fine instincts, was 
aware of this, and that there were one or two secrets about 
the furniture and disposition of light in her salon which are 
lost in these degenerate days. I heard, or read, lately, that 
we make a great mistake in furnishing our reception-rooms 
with all the light and delicate colours, the profusion of 
ornament, and flecked and spotted chintzes, if we wish to 
show off the human face and figure ; that our ancestors and 

5 °6 


Company Manners 

the great painters knew better, with their somewhat sombre 
and heavy-tinted backgrounds, relieving, or throwing out 
into full relief, the rounded figure and the delicate peach -like 
complexion. 

I fancy Madame de Sable’s salon was furnished with 
deep warm soberness of tone ; lighted up by flowers, and 
happy animated people, in a brilliancy of dress which would 
be lost nowadays against our satin walls, and flower-bestrewn 
carpets, and gilding, gilding everywhere. Then, somehow, 
conversation must have flowed naturally into sense or non- 
sense, as the case might be. People must have gone to her 
house well prepared for either lot. It might be that wit 
would come uppermost, sparkling, crackling, leaping, calling 
out echoes all around ; or the same people might talk with 
all their might and wisdom, on some grave and important 
subject of the day, in that manner which we have got into 
the way of calling “ earnest,” but which term has struck me 
as being slightly flavoured by cant, ever since I heard of an 
“ earnest uncle.” At any rate, whether grave or gay, people 
did not go up to Madame de Sable’s salons with a set pur- 
pose of being either the one or the other. They were carried 
away by the subject of the conversation, by the humour of 
the moment. I have visited a good deal among a set of 
people who piqued themselves on being rational. We have 
talked what they called sense, but what I call platitudes, till 
I have longed, like Southey, in the “ Doctor,” to come out 
with some interminable nonsensical word (Aballibogibouga- 
norribo was his, I think) as a relief for my despair at not 
being able to think of anything more that was sensible. It 
would have done me good to have said it, and I could have 
started afresh on the rational tack. But I never did. I 
sank into inane silence, which I hope was taken for wisdom. 
One of this set paid a relation of mine a profound compli- 
ment, for so she meant it to be ; “ Oh, Miss F. ; you are so 
trite ! ” But as it is not in every one’s power to be rational, 
and “ trite,” at all times and in all places, discharging our 
sense at a given place, like water from a fireman’s hose; 

5°7 


Company Manners 

and as some of us are cisterns rather than fountains, and 
may have our stores exhausted, why is it not more general 
to call in other aids to conversation, in order to enable us to 
pass an agreeable evening ? 

But I will come back to this presently. Only let me say 
that there is but one thing more tiresome than an evening 
when everybody tries to be profound and sensible, and that 
is an evening when everybody tries to be witty. I have a 
disagreeable sense of effort and unnaturalness at both times ; 
but the everlasting attempt, even when it succeeds, to be 
clever and amusing is the worst of the two. People try to 
say brilliant rather than true things ; they not only catch 
eager hold of the superficial and ridiculous in other persons 
and in events generally, but, from constantly looking out 
for subjects for jokes, and “ mots,” and satire, they become 
possessed of a kind of sore susceptibility themselves, and 
are afraid of their own working selves, and dare not give 
way to any expression of feeling, or any noble indignation 
or enthusiasm. This kind of wearying wit is far different 
from humour, which wells up and forces, its way out 
irrepressibly, and calls forth smiles and laughter, but not 
very far apart from tears. Depend upon it, some of Madame 
de Sable’s friends had been moved in a most abundant and 
genial measure. They knew how to narrate, too. Very 
simple, say you ? I say, no ! I believe the art of telling 
a story is born with some people, and these have it to per- 
fection; but all might acquire some expertness in it, and 
ought to do so, before launching out into the muddled, com- 
plex, hesitating, broken, disjointed, poor, bald, accounts of 
events which have neither unity, nor colour, nor life, nor 
end in them, that one sometimes hears. 

But as to the rational parties that are in truth so irra- 
tional, when all talk up to an assumed character, instead of 
showing themselves what they really are, and so extending 
each other’s knowledge of the infinite and beautiful capacities 
of human nature — whenever I see the grave sedate faces, 
with their good but anxious expression, I remember how I 

508 


Company Manners 

was once, long ago, at a party like this ; every one had 
brought out his or her wisdom, and aired it for the good of 
the company ; one or two had, from a sense of duty, and 
without any special living interest in the matter, improved 
us by telling us of some new scientific discovery, the details 
of which were all and each of them wrong, as I learnt after- 
wards ; if they had been right, we should not have been any 
the wiser — and just at the pitch when any more useful 
information might have brought on congestion of the brain, 
a stranger to the town — a beautiful, audacious, but most 
feminine romp — proposed a game, and such a game, for U3 
wise men of Gotham ! But she (now long still and quiet 
after her bright life, so full of pretty pranks) was a creature 
whom all who looked on loved ; and with grave, hesitating 
astonishment we knelt round a circular table at her word of 
command. She made one of the circle, and producing a 
feather out of some sofa pillow, she told us she should blow 
it up into the air, and whichever of us it floated near, must 
puff away to keep it from falling on the table. I suspect 
we all looked like Keeley in the “ Camp at Chobham ”, and 
were surprised at our own obedience to this ridiculous, 
senseless mandate, given with a graceful imperiousness, as if 
it were too royal to be disputed. We knelt on, puffing away 
with the utmost intentness, looking like a set of elderly 

“ Fools ! ” No, my dear sir. I was going to say elderly 
cherubim. But making fools of ourselves was better than 
making owls, as we had been doing. 

I will mention another party, where a game of some kind 
would have been a blessing. It was at a very respectable 
tradesman’s house. We went at half-past four, and found a 
well-warmed handsome sitting-room, with block upon block 
of unburnt coal behind the fire; on the table there was a 
tray with wine and cake, oranges and almonds and raisins, 
of which we were urged to partake. In half-an-hour came 
tea ; none of your flimsy meals, with wafer bread and butter, 
and three biscuits and a half. This was a grave and serious 
proceeding — tea, coffee, bread of all kinds, cold fowl, tongue, 

509 


Company Manners 

ham, potted meats, — I don’t know what. Tea lasted about 
an hour, and then the cake and wine-tray was restored to its 
former place. The stock of subjects of common interest was 
getting low, and, in spite of our good-will, long stretches of 
silence occurred, producing a stillness, which made our host 
nervously attack the fire, and stir it up to a yet greater glow 
of intense heat : and the hostess invariably rose at such 
times, and urged us to “ eat another maccaroon.” The first 
I revelled in, the second I enjoyed, the third I got through, 
the fourth I sighed over, the fifth reminded me uncomfort- 
ably of that part of Sterne’s “ Sentimental Journey” where 
he feeds a donkey with maccaroons — and when, at the sight 
of the sixth, I rose to come away, a burst of imploring, 
indignant surprise greeted me : “You are surely never going 
before supper ! ” I stopped. I ate that supper. Hot jugged 
hare, hot roast turkey, hot boiled ham, hot apple-tart, hot 
toasted cheese. No wonder I am old before my time. Now 
these good geople were really striving, and taking pains, and 
laying out money, to make the evening pass agreeably, but 
the only way they could think of to amuse their guests, was, 
giving them plenty to eat. If they had asked one of their 
children they could doubtless have suggested half-a-dozen 
games, which we could all have played at when our subjects 
of common interest failed, and which would have carried us 
over the evening quietly and simply, if not brilliantly. But 
in many a small assemblage of people, where the persons 
collected are incongruous, where talking cannot go on 
through so many hours, without becoming flat or laboured, 
why have we not oftener recourse to games of some kind ? 

Wit, Advice, Bout-rimes, Lights, Spanish Merchant, 
Twenty Questions — every one knows these, and many more, 
if they would only not think it beneath them to be called 
upon by a despairing hostess to play at them. Of course to 
play them well requires a little more exertion of intellect 
than quoting other people’s sense and wisdom, or mis- 
quoting science. But I do not think it takes as much thought 
and memory and consideration, as it does to be “ up ” in the 

5io 


Company Manners 

science of good eating and drinking. A profound knowledge 
of this branch of learning seems in general to have absorbed 
all the faculties before it could be brought to anything like 
perfection. So I do not consider games as entailing so much 
mental fatigue as a man must undergo before be is qualified 
to decide upon dishes. I once noticed the worn and anxious 
look of a famous diner-out, when called upon by his no less 
anxious host to decide upon the merits of a salad, mixed by 
no hands, as you may guess, but those of the host in question. 
The guest, doctor of the art of good living, tasted, paused, tasted 
again — and then, with gentle solemnity, gave forth his con- 
demnatory opinion. I happened to be his next neighbour ; 
and, slowly turning his meditative full-moon face to me, he 
gave me the valuable information that to eat a salad in per- 
fection some one should be racing from lettuce to shalot, 
from shalot to endive, and so on, all the time that soup and 
fish were being eaten ; that the vegetables should be gathered, 
washed, sliced, blended, eaten, all in a quarter of an hour. 
I bowed as in the presence of a master ; and felt, no wonder 
his head was bald, and his face heavily wrinkled. 

I have said nothing of books. Yet I am sure that, if 
Madame de Sable lived now, they would be seen in her salon 
as part of its natural indispensable furniture ; not brought 
out, and strewed here and there when “ company was 
coming,” but as habitual presences in her room, wanting 
which, she would want a sense of warmth and comfort and 
companionship. Putting out books as a sort of preparation 
for an evening, as a means for making it pass agreeably, is 
running a great risk. In the first place, books are by such 
people, and on such occasions, chosen more for their outside 
than their inside. And in the next, they are the “mere 
material with which wisdom (or. wit) builds ” ; and if persons 
don’t know how to use the material, they will suggest nothing. 
I imagine Madame de Sable would have the volumes she her- 
self was reading, or those which, being new, contained any 
matter of present interest, left about, as they would naturally 
be. I could also fancy that her guests would not feel bound 

5* 1 


Company Manners 

to talk continually, whether they had anything to say or not, 
but that there might be pauses of not unpleasant silence — a 
quiet darkness out of which they might be certain that the 
little stars would glimmer soon. I can believe that in such 
pauses of repose, some one might open a book, and catch on 
a suggestive sentence, might dash off again into a full flow of 
conversation. But I cannot fancy any grand preparations 
for what was to be said among people, each of whom brought 
the best dish in bringing himself ; and whose own store of 
living, individual thought and feeling, and mother- wit, would 
be infinitely better than any cut-and-dry determination to 
devote the evening to mutual improvement. If people are 
really good a^nd wise, their goodness and their wisdom flow 
out unconsciously, and benefit like sunlight. So, books for 
reference, books for impromptu suggestion, but never books 
to serve for’ texts to a lecture. Engravings fall under some- 
thing like the same rules. To some they say everything ; to 
ignorant and unprepared minds, nothing. I remember 
noticing this in watching how people looked at a very valu- 
able portfolio belonging to an acquaintance of mine, which 
contained engraved and authentic portraits of almost every 
possible person; from king and kaiser down to notorious 
beggars and criminals; including all the celebrated men, 
women, and actors, whose likenesses could be obtained. To 
some, this portfolio gave food for observation, meditation, and 
conversation. It brought before them every kind of human 
tragedy — every variety of scenery and costume and grouping 
in the background, thronged with figures called up by their 
imagination. Others took them up and laid them down, 
simply saying, “ This is a pretty face ! ” “ Oh, what a pair 
of eyebrows ! ” “ Look at this queer dress ! ” 

Yet, after all, having something to take up and to look at 
is a relief and of use to persons who, without being self- 
conscious, are nervous from not being accustomed to society, 
O Cassandra ! Remember when you, with your rich gold 
coins of thought, with your noble power of choice expression, 
were set down, and were thankful to be set down, to look at 

512 


Company Manners 

some paltry engravings, just because people did not know 
how to get at your ore, and you did not care a button 
whether they did or not, and were rather bored by their 
attempts, the end of which you never found out. While 
I, with my rattling tinselly rubbish, was thought “ agreeable 
and an acquisition ! ” You would have been valued at 
Madame de Sable’s, where the sympathetic and intellectual 
stream of conversation would have borne you and your 
golden fragments away with it, by its soft, resistless, gentle 
force. 


BESSY’S TROUBLES AT HOME 


“ Well, mother, I’ve got you a Southport ticket,” said Bessy 
Lee, as she burst into a room where a pale, sick woman lay 
dressed on the outside of a bed. “ Aren’t you glad? ” asked 
she, as her mother moved uneasily, but did not speak. 

“ Yes, dear, I’m very thankful to you ; but your sudden 
coming in has made my heart flutter so, I’m ready to 
choke.” 

Poor Bessy’s eyes filled with tears ; but, it must be 
owned, they were tears half of anger. She had taken such 
pains, ever since the doctor said that Southport was the only 
thing for her mother, to get her an order from some sub- 
scriber to the charity, and she had rushed to her, in the full 
glow of success ; and now her mother seemed more put out 
by the noise she had made on coming in, than glad to receive 
the news she had brought. 

Mrs. Lee took her hand and tried to speak, but, as she 
said, she was almost choked with the palpitation at her 
heart. 

“ You think it very silly in me, dear, to be so easily 
startled ; but it is not altogether silliness ; it is I am so weak 
that every little noise gives me quite a fright. I shall be 
better, love, please God, when I come back from Southport. 
I am so glad you’ve got the order, for you’ve taken a deal of 
pains about it.” Mrs. Lee sighed. 

“ Don’t you want to go ? ” asked Bessy, rather sadly. 
“You always seem so sorrowful and anxious when we talk 
about it.” 

“It’s partly my being ailing that makes me anxious, I 

5i4 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

know,” said Mrs. Lee. “ But it seems as if so many things 
might happen while I was away.” 

Bessy felt a little impatient. Young people in strong 
health can hardly understand the fears that beset invalids. 
Bessy was a kind-hearted girl, but rather headstrong, and 
just now a little disappointed. She forgot that her mother 
had had to struggle hard with many cares ever since she had 
been left a widow, and that her illness now had made her 
nervous. 

“ What nonsense, mother ! What can happen ? I can 
take care of the house and the little ones, and Tom and Jem 
can take care of themselves. What is to happen ? ” 

“ Jenny may fall into the fire,” murmured Mrs. Lee, who 
found little comfort in being talked to in this way. “ Or your 
father’s watch may be stolen while you are in talking with the 
neighbours, or ” 

“ Now come, mother, you know I’ve had the charge of 
Jenny ever since father died, and you began to go out wash- 
ing — and I’ll lock father’s watch up in the box in our room.” 

“ Then Tom and Jem won’t know at what time to go to 
the factory. Besides, Bessy,” said she, raising herself up, 
“ they’re but young lads, and there’s a deal of temptation to 
take them away from their homes, if their homes are not 
comfortable and pleasant to them. It’s that, more than any- 
thing, I’ve been fretting about all the time I’ve been ill — 
that I’ve lost the power of making this house the cleanest 
and brightest place they know. But it’s no use fretting,” 
said she, falling back weakly upon the bed and sighing. 
“ I must leave it in God’s hands. He raiseth up and He 
bringeth low.” 

Bessy stood silent for a minute or two. Then she said, 
“ Well, mother, I will try to make home comfortable for the 
lads, if you’ll but keep your mind easy, and go off to South- 
port quiet and cheerful.” 

“ I’ll try,” said Mrs. Lee, taking hold of Bessy’s hand, 
and looking up thankfully in her face. 

The next Wednesday she set off, leaving home with a 

5^5 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

heavy heart, which, however, she struggled against, and tried 
to make more faithful. But she wished her three weeks at 
Southport were over. 

Tom and Jem were both older than Bessy, and she was 
fifteen. Then came Bill and Mary and little Jenny. They 
were all good children, and all had faults. Tom and Jem 
helped to support the family by their earnings at the factory, 
and gave up their wages very cheerfully for this purpose to 
their mother, who, however, insisted on a little being put by 
every week in the savings’ bank. It was one of her griefs 
now that, when the doctor ordered her some expensive 
delicacy in the way of diet during her illness (a thing which 
she persisted in thinking she could have done without), her 
boys had gone and taken their money out in order to procure 
it for her. The article in question did not cost one quarter 
of the amount of their savings, but they had put off returning 
the remainder into the bank, saying the doctor’s bill had yet 
to be paid, and that it seemed so silly to be always taking 
money in and out. But meanwhile Mrs. Lee feared lest it 
should be spent, and begged them to restore it to the savings’ 
bank. This had not been done when she left for Southport. 
Bill and Mary went to school. Little Jenny was the darling 
of all, and toddled about at home, having been her sister 
Bessy’s especial charge when all went on well, and the 
mother used to go out to wash. 

Mrs. Lee, however, had always made a point of giving 
all her children who were at home a comfortable breakfast at 
seven, before she set out to her day’s work ; and she prepared 
the boys’ dinner ready for Bessy to warm for them. At 
night, too, she was anxious to be at home as soon after her 
boys as she could ; and many of her employers respected her 
wish, and, finding her hard-working and conscientious, took 
care to set her at liberty early in the evening. 

Bessy felt very proud and womanly when she returned 
home from seeing her mother off by the railway. She looked 
round the house with a new feeling of proprietorship, and 
then went to claim little Jenny from the neighbour’s where 

5 ^ 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

she had been left while Bessy had gone to the station. 
They asked her to stay and have a bit of chat ; but she replied 
that she could not, for that it was near dinner-time, and she 
refused the invitation that was then given her to go in some 
evening. She was full of good plans and resolutions. 

That afternoon she took Jenny and went to her teacher’s 
to borrow a book, which she meant to ask one of her brothers 
to read to her in the evenings while she worked. She knew 
that it was a book which Jem would like, for though she had 
never read it, one of her schoolfellows had told her it was all 
about the sea, and desert islands, and cocoanut-trees, just the 
things that Jem liked to hear about. How happy they would 
all be this evening. 

She hurried Jenny off to bed before her brothers came 
home ; Jenny did not like to go so early, and had to be 
bribed and coaxed to give up the pleasure of sitting on brother 
Tom’s knee ; and, when she was in bed, she could not go 
to sleep, and kept up a little whimper of distress. Bessy 
kept calling out to her, now in gentle, now in sharp tones, as 
she made the hearth clean and bright against her brothers’ 
return, as she settled Bill and Mary to their next day’s 
lessons, and got her work ready for a happy evening. 

Presently the elder boys came in. 

“ Where’s Jenny ? ” asked Tom, the first thing. 

“ I’ve put her to bed,” said Bessy. “ I’ve borrowed a 
book for you to read to me while I darn the stockings ; and 
it was time for Jenny to go.” 

“ Mother never puts her to bed so soon,” said Tom, dis- 
satisfied. 

“ But she’d be so in the way of any quietness over our 
reading,” said Bessy. 

“I don’t want to read,” said Tom; “I want Jenny to 
sit on my knee, as she always does, while I eat my supper.” 

“ Tom, Tom, dear Tom ! ” called out little Jenny, who 
had heard his voice, and, perhaps, a little of the conversa- 
tion. 

Tom made two steps upstairs, and re-appeared with 
5i7 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

Jenny in his arms, in her night-clothes. The little girl 
looked at Bessy, half triumphant and half afraid. Bessy did 
not speak, but she was evidently very much displeased. 
Tom began to eat his porridge with Jenny on his knee. Bessy 
sat in sullen silence ; she was vexed with Tom, vexed with 
Jenny, and vexed with Jem, to gratify whose taste for read- 
ing travels she had especially borrowed this book, which he 
seemed to care so little about. She brooded over her fancied 
wrongs, ready to fall upon the first person who might give 
the slightest occasion for anger. It happened to be poor 
little Jenny, who, by some awkward movement, knocked 
over the jug of milk, and made a great splash on Bessy’s 
clean white floor. 

“ Never mind ! ” said Tom, as Jenny began to cry. “ I 
like my porridge as well without milk as with it.” 

“ Oh, never mind ! ” said Bessy, her colour rising, and 
her breath growing shorter. “ Never mind dirtying anything, 
Jenny ; it’s only giving trouble to Bessy ! But I’ll make 
you mind,” continued she, as she caught a glance of intelli- 
gence peep from Jem’s eyes to Tom ; and she slapped 
Jenny’s head. The moment she had done it she was sorry 
for it ; she could have beaten herself now with the greatest 
pleasure for having given way to passion ; for she loved 
little Jenny dearly, and she saw that she really had hurt her. 
But Jem, with his loud, deep, “ For shame, Bessy ! ” and 
Tom, with his excess of sympathy with his little sister’s 
wrongs, checked back any expression which Bessy might 
have uttered of sorrow and regret. She sat there ten times 
more unhappy than she had been before the accident, harden- 
ing her heart to the reproaches of her conscience, yet feeling 
most keenly that she had been acting wrongly. No one 
seemed to notice her ; this was the evening she had planned 
and arranged for so busily ; and the others, who never 
thought about it at all, were all quiet and happy, at least in 
outward appearance, while she was so wretched. By-and-by, 
she felt the touch of a little soft hand stealing into her own. 
She looked to see who it was ; it was Mary, who till now had 

5*8 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

been busy learning her lessons, but uncomfortably conscious 
of the discordant spirit prevailing in the room ; and who had 
at last ventured up to Bessy, as the one who looked the most 
unhappy, to express in her own little gentle way, her sym- 
pathy in sorrow. Mary was not a quick child; she was 
plain and awkward in her ways, and did not seem to have 
many words in which to tell her feelings, but she was very 
tender and loving, and submitted meekly and humbly to the 
little slights and rebuffs she often met with for her stupidity. 

“ Bear Bessy ! good-night ! ” said she, kissing her sister ; 
and, at the soft kiss, Bessy’s eyes filled with tears, and her 
heart began to melt. 

“Jenny,” continued Mary, going to the little spoilt, 
wilful girl, “ will you come to bed with me, and I’ll tell you 
stories about school, and sing you my songs as I undress ? 
Come, little one ! ” said she, holding out her arms. Jenny 
was tempted by this speech, and went off to bed in a more 
reasonable frame of mind than any one had dared to hope. 

And now all seemed clear and open for the reading, but 
each was too proud to propose it. Jem, indeed, seemed to 
have forgotten the book altogether, he was so busy whittling 
away at a piece of wood. At last Tom, by a strong effort, 
said, “ Bessy, mayn’t we have the book now ? ” 

“ No ! ” said Jem, “ don’t begin reading, for I must go out 
and try and make Ned Bates give me a piece of ash-wood — 
deal is just good for nothing.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Bessy, “ I don’t want any one to read this 
book who does not like it. But I know mother would be 
better pleased if you were stopping at home quiet, rather 
than rambling to Ned Bates’s at this time of night.” 

“ I know what mother would like as well as you, and I’m 
not going to be preached to by a girl,” said Jem, taking up 
his cap and going out. Tom yawned and went up to bed. 
Bessy sat brooding over the evening. 

“ So much as I thought and I planned ! I’m sure I tried 
to do what was right, and make the boys happy at home. 
And yet nothing has happened as I wanted it to do. Every 

5 r 9 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

one has been so cross and contrary. Tom would take Jenny 
up when she ought to have been in bed. Jem did not care 
a straw for this book that I borrowed on purpose for him, 
but sat laughing. I saw, though he did not think I did, when 
all was going provoking and vexatious. Mary — no ! Mary 
was a help and a comfort, as she always is, I think, though 
she is so stupid over her book. Mary always contrives to 
get people right, and to have her own way somehow ; and 
yet I’m sure she does not take half the trouble I do to please 
people.” 

Jem came back soon, disappointed because Ned Bates 
was out, and could not give him any ash-wood. Bessy said 
it served him right for going at that time of night, and the 
brother and sister spoke angrily to each other all the way 
upstairs, and parted without even saying good-night. Jenny 
was asleep when Bessy entered the bedroom which she 
shared with her sisters and her mother ; but she saw Mary’s 
wakeful eyes looking at her as she came in. 

“ 0 Mary,” said she, “ I wish mother was back. The 
lads would mind her, and now I see they’ll just go and get 
into mischief to spite and plague me.” 

“ I don’t think it’s for that,” said Mary softly. “ Jem 
did want that ash- wood, I know, for he told me in the morn- 
ing he didn’t think that deal would do. He wants to make 
a wedge to keep the window from rattling so on windy 
nights ; you know how that fidgets mother.” 

The next day, little Mary, on her way to school, went 
round by Ned Bates’s to beg a piece of wood for her brother 
Jem ; she brought it home to him at dinner-time, and asked 
him to be so good as to have everything ready for a quiet 
whittling at night, while Tom or Bessy read aloud. She told 
Jenny she would make haste with her lessons, so as to be 
ready to come to bed early, and talk to her about school (a 
grand, wonderful place, in Jenny’s eyes), and thus Mary 
quietly and gently prepared for a happy evening, by 
attending to the kind of happiness for which every one 
wished. 


520 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

While Mary had thus been busy preparing for a happy 
evening, Bessy had been spending part of the afternoon at a 
Mrs. Foster’s, a neighbour of her mother’s, and a very tidy, 
industrious old widow. Mrs. Foster earned part of her liveli- 
hood by working for the shops where knitted work of all 
kinds is to be sold ; and Bessy’s attention was caught, 
almost as soon as she went in, by a very gay piece of wool- 
knitting, in a new stitch, that was to be used as a warm 
covering for the feet. After admiring its pretty looks, Bessy 
thought how useful it might be to her mother ; and when 
Mrs. Foster heard this, she offered to teach Bessy how to do 
it. But where were the wools to come from ? Those which 
Mrs. Foster used were provided her by the shop ; and she 
was a very poor woman — too poor to make presents, though 
rich enough (as we all are) to give help of many other 
kinds, and willing to do what she could (which some of us 
are not). 

The two sat perplexed. “ How much did you say it 
would cost ? ” said Bessy at last ; as if the article was 
likely to have become cheaper since she asked the question 
before. 

“ Well ! it’s sure to be more than two shillings if it’s 
German wool. You might get it for eighteenpence if you 
could be content with English.” 

“ But I’ve not got eighteenpence,” said Bessy gloomily. 

“ I could lend it you,” said Mrs. Foster, “ If I was sure 
of having it back before Monday. But it’s part of my rent- 
money. Could you make sure, do you think ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Bessy eagerly. “ At least I’d try. 
But perhaps I had better not take it, for after all I don’t 
know where I could get it. What Tom and Jem earn is 
little enough for the house, now that mother’s washing is 
cut off.” 

“ They are good, dutiful lads, to give it to their mother,” 
said Mrs. Foster, sighing : for she thought of her own boys, 
that had left her in her old age to toil on, with faded eye- 
sight and weakened strength. 

52i 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

“ Oh ! but mother makes them each keep a shilling out 
of it for themselves,” said Bessy, in a complaining tone, for 
she wanted money and was inclined to envy any one who 
possessed it. 

“ That’s right enough,” said Mrs. Foster. “ They that 
earn it should have some of the power over it.” 

“ But about this wool ; this eighteenpence ! I wish I was 
a boy and could earn money. I wish mother would have 
let me go to work in the factory.” 

“ Come now, Bessy, I can have none of that nonsense. 
Thy mother knows what’ s best for thee ; and I’m not going 
to hear thee complain of what she has thought right. But 
may be, I can help you to a way of gaining eighteenpence. 
Mrs. Scott at the worsted shop told me that she should want 
some one to clean on Saturday ; now you’ re a good strong 
girl, and can do a woman’s work if you’ve a mind. Shall 
I say you will go ? and then I don’t mind if I lend you my 
eighteenpence. You’ll pay me before I want my rent on 
Monday.” 

“ Oh ! thank you, dear Mrs. Foster,” said Bessy. “ I can 
scour as well as any woman, mother often says so ; and I’ll 
do my best on Saturday ; they shan’t blame you for having 
spoken up for me.” 

“ No, Bessy, they won’t, I’m sure, if you do your best. 
You’re a good sharp girl for your years.” 

Bessy lingered for some time, hoping that Mrs. Foster 
would remember her offer of lending her the money ; but, 
finding that she had quite forgotten it, she ventured to 
remind the kind old woman. That it was nothing but 
forgetfulness, was evident from the haste with which Mrs. 
Foster bustled up to her tea-pot and took from it the money 
required. 

“ You’re as welcome to it as can be, Bessy, as long as 
I’m sure of its being repaid by Monday. But you’re in a 
mighty hurry about this coverlet,” continued she, as she saw 
Bessy put on her bonnet and prepare to go out. “ Stay, 
you must take patterns, and go to the right shop in St. 

522 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

Mary’s Gate. Why, your mother won’t be back this three 
weeks, child.” 

“ No. But I can’t abide waiting, and I want to set to it 
before it is dark ; and you’ll teach me the stitch, won’t you, 
when I come back with the wools ? I won’t be half-an-hour 
away.” 

But Mary and Bill had to “ abide waiting ” that after- 
noon ; for, though the neighbour at whose house the key was 
left could let them into the house, there was no supper ready 
for them on their return from school ; even Jenny was away 
spending the afternoon with a playfellow ; the fire was nearly 
out, the milk had been left at a neighbour’s ; altogether 
home was very comfortless to the poor tired children, and 
Bill grumbled terribly ; Mary’s head ached, and the very 
tones of her brother’s voice, as he complained, gave her 
pain; and for a minute she felt inclined to sit down and 
cry. But then she thought of many little sayings which she 
had heard from her teacher — such as “ Never complain of 
what you can cure,” “ Bear and forbear,” and several other 
short sentences of a similar description. So she began to make 
up the fire, and asked Bill to fetch some chips ; and when 
he gave her the gruff answer, that he did not see any use in 
making a fire when there was nothing to cook by it, she 
went herself and brought the wood without a word of 
complaint. 

Presently Bill said, “ Here ! you lend me those bellows ; 
you’re not blowing it in the right way ; girls never do ! ” He 
found out that Mary was wise in making a bright fire ready ; 
for, before the blowing was ended, the neighbour with whom 
the milk had been left brought it in, and little handy Mary 
prepared the porridge as well as the mother herself could 
have done. They had just ended when Bessy came in 
almost breathless ; for she had suddenly remembered, in the 
middle of her knitting lesson, that Bill and Mary must be at 
home from school. 

“ Oh ! ” she said, “ that’s right. I have so hurried my- 
self ! I was afraid the fire would be out. Where’s Jenny ? 

5 2 3 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

You were to have called for her, you know, as you came 
from school. Dear ! how stupid you are, Mary. I am sure 
I told you over and over again. Now don’t cry, silly child. 
The best thing you can do is to run off back again for her.” 

“ But my lessons, Bessy. They are so bad to learn. It’s 
tables day to-morrow,” pleaded Mary. 

“ Nonsense; tables are as easy as can be. I can say up 
to sixteen times sixteen in no time.” 

“ But you know, Bessy, I’m very stupid, and my head 
aches so to-night ! ” 

“ Well ! the air will do it good. Really, Mary, I would 
go myself, only I’m so busy; and you know Bill is too 
careless, mother says, to fetch Jenny through the streets; 
and besides they would quarrel, and you can always manage 
Jenny.” 

Mary sighed, and went away to bring her sister home. 
Bessy sat down to her knitting. Presently Bill came up to 
her with some question about his lesson. She told him the 
answer without looking at the book ; it was all wrong and 
made nonsense ; but Bill did not care to understand what he 
learnt, and went on saying, “ Twelve inches make one 
shilling,” as contentedly as if it were right. 

Mary brought Jenny home quite safely. Indeed, Mary 
always did succeed in everything, except learning her lessons 
well ; and, sometimes, if the teacher could have known how 
many tasks fell upon the willing, gentle girl at home, she 
would not have thought that poor Mary was slow or a 
dunce; and such thoughts would come into the teacher’s 
mind sometimes, although she fully appreciated Mary’s 
sweetness and humility of disposition. 

To-night she tried hard at her tables, and all to no use. 
Her head ached so, she could not remember them, do what 
she would. She longed to go to her mother, whose cool 
hands around her forehead always seemed to do her so 
much good, and whose soft, loving words were such a help 
to her when she had to bear pain. She had arranged so 
many plans for to-night, and now all were deranged by 

5 2 4 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

Bessy’s new fancy for knitting. But Mary did not see this 
in the plain, clear light in which I have put it before you. 
She only was sorry that she could not make haste with her 
lessons, as she had promised Jenny, who was now upbraiding 
her with the non-fulfilment of her words. Jenny was still 
up when Tom and Jem came in. They spoke sharply to 
Bessy for not having their porridge ready ; and, while she 
was defending herself, Mary, even at the risk of imperfect 
lessons, began to prepare the supper for her brothers. She 
did it all so quietly, that almost before they were aware, it 
was ready for them ; and Bessy, suddenly ashamed of 
herself, and touched by Mary’s quiet helpfulness, bent down 
and kissed her, as once more she settled to the never-ending 
difficulty of her lesson. 

Mary threw her arms round Bessy’s neck, and began to 
cry, for this little mark of affection went to her heart ; she had 
been so longing for a word or sign of love in her suffering. 

“Come, Molly,” said Jem, “don’t cry like a baby;” but 
he spoke very kindly. “ What’s the matter ? the old headache 
come back? Never mind. Go to bed, and it will be better 
in the morning.” 

“ But I can’t go to bed. I don’t know my lesson ! ” 
Mary looked happier, though the tears were in her eyes. 

“ I know mine,” said Bill triumphantly. 

“ Come here,” said Jem. “ There ! I’ve time enough to 
whittle away at this before mother comes back. Now let’s 
see this difficult lesson.” 

Jem’s help soon enabled Mary to conquer her lesson ; but, 
meanwhile, Jenny and Bill had taken to quarrelling in spite 
of Bessy’s scolding, administered in small sharp doses, as 
she looked up from her all-absorbing knitting. 

“ Well,” said Tom, “ with this riot on one side, and this 
dull lesson on the other, and Bessy as cross as can be in the 
midst, I can understand what makes a man go out to spend 
his evenings from home.” 

Bessy looked up, suddenly wakened up to a sense of the 
danger which her mother had dreaded. 

525 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

Bessy thought it was very fortunate that it fell on a 
Saturday, of all days in the week, that Mrs. Scott wanted 
her ; for Mary would be at home, who could attend to the 
household wants of everybody; and so she satisfied her 
conscience at leaving the post of duty that her mother had 
assigned to her, and that she had promised to fulfil. She 
was so eager about her own plans that she did not consider 
this ; she did not consider at all, or else I think she would 
have seen many things to which she seemed to be blind 
now. When were Mary’s lessons for Monday to be learnt ? 
Bessy knew as well as we do that lesson-learning was hard 
work to Mary. If Mary worked as hard as she could after 
morning school she could hardly get the house cleaned up 
bright and comfortable before her brothers came home from 
the factory, which “ loosed ” early on the Saturday afternoon ; 
and if pails of water, chairs heaped up one on the other, and 
tables put topsy-turvy on the dresser, were the most promi- 
nent objects in the house-place, there would be no tempta- 
tion for the lads to stay at home ; besides which, Mary, tired 
and weary (however gentle she might be), would not be able 
to give the life to the evening that Bessy, a clever, spirited 
girl, near their own age, could easily do, if she chose to be 
interested and sympathising in what they had to tell. But 
Bessy did not think of all this. What she did think about 
was the pleasant surprise she should give her mother by the 
warm and pretty covering for, her feet, which she hoped to 
present her with on her return home. And if she had done 
the duties she was pledged to on her mother’s departure 
first, if they had been compatible with her plan of being a 
whole day absent from home, in order to earn the money for 
the wools, the project of the surprise would have been 
innocent and praiseworthy. 

Bessy prepared everything for dinner before she left 
home that Saturday morning. She made a potato-pie all 
ready for putting in the oven; she was very particular in 
telling Mary what was to be cleaned, and how it was all to 
be cleaned ; and then she kissed the children, and ran off to 

526 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

Mrs. Scott’s. Mary was rather afraid of the responsibility 
thrust upon her ; but still she was pleased that Bessy could 
trust her to do so much. She took Jenny to the ever-useful 
neighbour, as she and Bill went to school ; but she was 
rather frightened when Mrs. Jones began to grumble about 
these frequent visits of the child. 

“I was ready enough to take care of the wench when 
thy mother was ill; there was reason for that. And the 
child is a nice child enough, when she is not cross ; but still 
there are some folks, it seems, who, if you give them an 
inch, will take an ell. Where’s Bessy that she can’t mind 
her own sister ? ” 

“ Gone out charing,” said Mary, clasping the little hand 
in hers tighter, for she was afraid of Mrs. Jones’s anger. 

“ I could go out charing every day in the week if I’d the 
face to trouble other folks with my children,” said Mrs. 
Jones in a surly tone. 

“ Shall I take her back, ma’am ? ” said Mary timidly, 
though she knew this would involve her staying away from 
school, and being blamed by the dear teacher. But Mrs. 
J ones growled worse than she bit, this time at least. 

“ No,” said she, “ you may leave her with me. I suppose 
she’s had her breakfast ? ” 

“ Yes ; and I’ll fetch her away as soon as ever I can 
after twelve.” 

If Mary had been one to consider the hardships of her 
little lot, she might have felt this morning’s occurrence as 
one ; — that she who dreaded giving trouble to anybody, and 
was painfully averse from asking any little favour for herself, 
should be the very one on whom it fell to presume upon 
another person’s kindness. But Mary never did think of 
any hardships ; they seemed the natural events of life, and 
as if it was fitting and proper that she, who managed things 
badly, and was such a dunce, should be blamed. Still she 
was rather flurried by Mrs. Jones’s scolding; and almost 
wished that she had taken Jenny home again. Her lessons 
were not well said, owing to the distraction of her mind, 

5 2 7 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

When she went for Jenny she found that Mrs. Jones, 
repenting of her sharp words, had given the little girl bread 
and treacle, and made h*r very comfortable ; so much so that 
Jenny was not all at once ready to leave her little playmates, 
and when once she had set out on the road, she was in no 
humour to make haste. Mary thought of the potato-pie 
and her brothers, and could almost have cried, as Jenny, 
heedless of her sister’s entreaties, would linger at the 
picture-shops. 

“ I shall be obliged to go and leave you, Jenny ! I must 
get dinner ready.” 

“ I don’t care,” said Jenny. “ I don’t want any dinner, 
and I can come home quite well by myself.” 

Mary half longed to give her a fright, it was so provoking. 
But she thought of her mother, who was so anxious always 
about Jenny, and she did not do it. She kept patiently trying 
to attract her onwards, and at last they were at home. 
Mary stirred up the fire, which was to all appearance quite 
black ; it blazed up, but the oven was cold. She put the pie 
in, and blew the fire ; but the paste was quiet white and soft 
when her brothers came home, eager and hungry. 

“ O Mary, what a manager you are ! ” said Tom. “ Any 
one else would have remembered and put the pie in in time.” 

Mary’s eyes filled full of tears ; but she did not try to 
justify herself. She went on blowing, till Jem took the 
bellows, and kindly told her to take off her bonnet, and lay 
the cloth. Jem was always kind. He gave Tom the best 
baked side of the pie, and quietly took the side himself where 
the paste was little better than dough, and the potatoes quite 
hard; and when he caught Mary’s little anxious face 
watching him, as he had to leave part of his dinner untasted, 
he said, “ Mary, I should like this pie warmed up for supper ; 
there is nothing so good as potato-pie made hot the second 
time.” 

Tom went off saying, “ Mary, I would not have you for a 
wife on any account. Why, my dinner would never be ready, 
and your sad face would take away my appetite if it were.” 

528 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

But Jem kissed her and said, “ Never mind, Mary ! you 
and I will live together, old maid and old bachelor.” 

So she could set to with spirit to her cleaning, thinking 
there never was such a good brother as Jem ; and as she 
dwelt upon his perfections, she thought who it was who had 
given her such a good, kind brother, and felt her heart full 
of gratitude to Him. She scoured and cleaned in right- 
down earnest. Jenny helped her for some time, delighted 
to be allowed to touch and lift things. But then she grew 
tired ; and Bill was out of doors ; so Mary had to do all by 
herself, and grew very nervous and frightened, lest all should 
not be finished and tidy against Tom came home. And, the 
more frightened she grew, the worse she got on. Her hands 
trembled, and things slipped out of them ; and she shook so, 
she could not lift heavy pieces of furniture quickly and 
sharply ; and in the middle the clock struck the hour for her 
brothers’ return, when all ought to have been tidy and 
ready for tea. She gave it up in despair, and began 
to cry. 

“ O Bessy, Bessy, why did you go away ? I have tried 
hard, and I cannot do it,” said she aloud, as if Bessy could 
hear. 

“ Dear Mary, don’t cry,” said Jenny, suddenly coming 
away from her play. “ I’ll help you. I am very strong. I 
can do anything. I can lift that pan off the fire.” 

The pan was full of boiling water, ready for Mary. Jenny 
took hold of the handle, and dragged it along the bar over the 
fire. Mary sprang forwards in terror to stop the little girl. 
She never knew how it was, but the next moment her arm 
and side were full of burning pain, which turned her sick and 
dizzy, and Jenny was crying passionately beside her. 

“ O Mary ! Mary ! Mary ! my hand is so scalded. 
What shall I do ? I cannot bear it. It’s all about my feet 
on the ground.” She kept shaking her hand, to cool it by the 
action of the air, Mary thought that she herself was dying, 
so acute and terrible was the pain ; she .could hardly keep 
from screaming out aloud ; but she felt that if she once 

529 2 M 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

began she could not stop herself, so she sat still, moaning, 
and the tears running down her face like rain. “ Go, Jenny,” 
said she, “ and tell some one to come.” 

“ I can’t, I can’t, my hands hurt so,” said Jenny. But 
she flew wildly out of the house the next minute, crying out, 
“ Mary is dead. Come, come, come ! ” For Mary could 
bear it no longer ; but had fainted away, and looked, indeed, 
like one that was dead. Neighbours flocked in ; and one ran 
for a doctor. In five minutes Tom and Jem came home. 
What a home it seems ! People they hardly knew standing 
in the house-place, which looked as if it had never been 
cleaned — all was so wet, and in such disorder, and dirty with 
the trampling of many feet ; Jenny still crying passionately, 
but half comforted at being at present the only authority as 
to how the affair happened ; and faint moans from the room 
upstairs, where some women were cutting the clothes off 
poor Mary, preparatory for the doctor’s inspection. Jem 
said directly, “ Some one go straight to Mrs. Scott’s, and 
fetch our Bessy. Her place is here with Mary.” 

And then he civilly, but quietly, dismissed all the un- 
necessary and useless people, feeling sure that in case of 
any kind of illness, quiet was the best thing. Then he went 
upstairs. 

Mary’s face was scarlet now with violent pain ; but she 
smiled a little through her tears at seeing Jem. As for him, 
he cried outright. 

“ I don’t think it was anybody’s fault, Jem,” said she 
softly. “ It was very heavy to lift.” 

“ Are you in great pain, dear ? ” asked Jem, in a whisper. 

“ I think I’m killed, Jem. I do think I am. And I did 
so want to see mother again.” 

“ Nonsense !‘” said the woman who had been helping 
Mary. For, as she said afterwards, whether Mary died or 
lived, crying was a bad thing for her ; and she saw the girl 
was ready to cry when she thought of her mother, though 
she had borne up bravely all the time the clothes were 
cut off. 


53 ° 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

Bessy’s face, which had been red with hard running, faded 
to a dead white when she saw Mary ; she looked so shocked 
and ill that Jem had not the heart to blame her, although, 
the minute before she came, he had been feeling very angry 
with her. Bessy stood quite still at the foot of Mary’s bed, 
never speaking a word, while the doctor examined her side 
and felt her pulse ; only great round tears gathered in her 
eyes, and rolled down her cheeks, as she saw Mary quiver 
with pain. Jem followed the doctor downstairs. Then 
Bessy went and knelt beside Mary, and wiped away the tears 
that were trickling down the little face. 

“ Is it very bad, Mary ? ” asked Bessy. 

“ Oh, yes ! yes ! if I speak I shall scream.” 

Then Bessy covered her head in the bed-clothes and cried 
outright. 

“ I was not cross, was I ? I did not mean to be — but I 
hardly know what I am saying,” moaned out little Mary. 
“ Please forgive me, Bessy, if I was cross.” 

“ God forgive me ! ” said Bessy, very low. They were 
the first words she had spoken since she came home. But 
there could be no more talking between the sisters, for now 
the woman returned who had at first been assisting Mary. 
Presently Jem came to the door, and beckoned. Bessy rose 
up, and went with him below. Jem looked very grave, yet 
not so sad as he had before the doctor came. “ He says 
she must go into the infirmary. He will see about getting 
her in.” 

“ O Jem ! I did so want to nurse her myself ! ” said 
Bessy imploringly. “ It was all my own fault ” (she choked 
with crying) ; “ and I thought I might do that for her, to 
make up.” 

“ My dear Bessy,” — before he had seen Bessy, he had 
thought he could never call her “ dear ” again, but now he 
began — “ My dear Bessy, we both want Mary to get better, 
don’t we? I am sure we do. And we want to take the best 
way of making her so, whatever that is ; well, then, I think 
we must not be considering what we should like best just for 

53i 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

ourselves, but what people, who know as well as doctors do, 
say is the right way. I can’t remember all that he said ; but 
I’m clear that he told me, all wounds on the skin required 
more and better air to heal in than Mary could have here ; 
and there the doctor will see her twice a day if need be.” 

Bessy shook her head but could not speak at first. At 
last she said, “Jem, I did so want to do something for her. 
No one could nurse her as I should.” 

Jem was silent. At last he took Bessy’s hand, for he 
wanted to say something to her that he was afraid might 
vex her, and yet that he thought he ought to say. 

“ Bessy ! ” said he, “ when mother went away, you planned 
to do all things right at home, and to make us all happy. I 
know you did. Now, may I tell you how I think you went 
wrong? Don’t be angry, Bessy.” 

“ I think I shall never have spirit enough in me to be 
angry again,” said Bessy, humbly and sadly. 

“ So much the better, dear. But don’t over-fret about 
Mary. The doctor has good hopes of her, if he can get her 
into the infirmary. Now, I’m going on to tell you how I 
think you got wrong after mother left. You see, Bessy, you 
wanted to make us all happy your way — as you liked ; just 
as you are wanting now to nurse Mary in your way, and as 
you like. Now, as far as I can make out, those folks who 
make home the happiest are people who try and find out 
how others think they could be happy, and then, if it’s not 
wrong, help them on with, their wishes as far as they can. 
You know, you wanted us all to listen to your book ; and 
very kind it was in you to think of it ; only, you see, one 
wanted to whittle, and another wanted to do this or that, and 
then you were vexed with us all. I don’t say but what I should 
have been the same if I had been in your place, and planned 
such a deal for others : only lookers-on always see a deal ; 
and I saw that if you’d done what poor little Mary did next 
day, we should all have been far happier. She thought how 
she could forward us in our plans, instead of trying to force 
a plan of her own on us. She got me my right sort of wood 

532 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

for whittling, and arranged all nicely to get the little ones 
off to bed, so as to get the house quiet, if you wanted some 
reading, as she thought you did. And that’s the way, I 
notice, some folks have of making a happy home. Others 
may mean just as well ; but they don’t hit the thing.” 

“ I dare say it’s true,” said Bessy. “ But sometimes 
you all hang about as if you did not know what to do. And 
I thought reading travels would just please you all.” 

Jem was touched by Bessy’s humble way of speaking, so 
different from her usual cheerful, self-confident manner. 
He answered, “ I know you did, dear. And many a time 
we should have been glad enough of it, when we had nothing 
to do, as you say.” 

“ I had promised mother to try and make you all happy, 
and this is the end of it ! ” said Bessy, beginning to cry 
afresh. 

“ But, Bessy ! I think you were not thinking of your 
promise, when you fixed to go out and char.” 

“ I thought of earning money.” 

“ Earning money would not make us happy. We have 
enough, with care and management. If you were to have 
made us happy, you should have been- at home, with a 
bright face, ready to welcome us ; don’t you think so, dear 
Bessy ? ” 

“ I did not want the money for home. I wanted to make 
mother a present of such a pretty thing.” 

“ Poor mother ! I am afraid we must send for her home 
now. And she has only been three days at Southport ! 

“Oh!” said Bessy, startled by this notion of Jem’s; 
“ don’t, don’t send for mother. The doctor did say so much 
about her going to Southport being the only thing for her, and 
I did so try to get her an order ! It will kill her, Jem ! indeed 
it will ; you don’t know how weak and frightened she is, — 
O Jem, Jem ! ” 

Jem felt the truth of what his sister was saying. At last, 
he resolved to leave the matter for the doctor to decide, as 
he had attended his mother, and now knew exactly how 

533 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

much danger there was about Mary. He proposed to Bessy 
that they should go and relieve the kind neighbour who had 
charge of Mary. 

“But you won’t send for mother,” pleaded Bessy; “if 
it’s the best thing for Mary, I’ll wash up her things to-night, 
all ready for her to go into the infirmary. I won’t think of 
myself, Jem.” 

“ Well ! I must speak to the doctor,” said Jem. “ I 
must not try and fix any way just because we wish it, but 
because it is right.” 

All night long, Bessy washed and ironed, and yet was 
always ready to attend to Mary when Jem called her. She 
took Jenny’s scalded hand in charge as well, and bathed it 
with the lotion the doctor sent ; and all was done so meekly 
and patiently that even Tom was struck with it, and admired 
the change. The doctor came very early. He had prepared 
everything for Mary’s admission into the infirmary. And 
Jem consulted him about sending for his mother home. 
Bessy sat trembling, awaiting his answer. 

“ I am very unwilling to sanction any concealment. And 
yet, as you say, your mother is in a very delicate state. It 
might do her serious harm if she had any shock. Well ! 
suppose for this once, I take it on myself. If Mary goes on 
as I hope, why — well ! well ! we’ll see. Mind that your 
mother is told all when she comes home. And if our poor 
Mary grows worse — but I am not afraid of that, with in- 
firmary care and nursing — but, if she does, I’ll write to your 
mother myself, and arrange with a kind friend I have at 
Southport all about sending her home. And now,” said he, 
turning suddenly to Bessy, “ tell me what you were doing 
from home when this happened, Did not your mother 
leave you in charge of all at home ? ” 

“Yes, sir! ” said Bessy, trembling. “ But, sir, I thought 
I could earn money to make mother a present ! ” 

“ Thought ! fiddle-de-dee. I’ll tell you what ; never you 
neglect the work clearly laid out for you by either God or 
man, to go making work for yourself, according to your own 

534 


Bessy’s Troubles at Home 

fancies. God knows what yon are most fit for. Do that. 
And then wait; if you don’t see your next duty clearly. 
You will not long be idle in this world, if you are ready for a 
summons. Now, let me see that you send Mary all clean 
and tidy to the infirmary.” 

Jem was holding Bessy’s hand. “ She has washed 
everything and made it fit for a queen. Our Bessy worked 
all night long, and was content to let me be with Mary 
(where she wished sore to be), because I could lift her better, 
being the stronger.” 

“ That’s right. Even when you want to be of service to 
others, don’t think how to please yourself.” 

I have not much more to tell you about Bessy. This 
sad accident of Mary’s did her a great deal of good, although 
it cost her so much sorrow at first. It taught her several 
lessons, which it is good for every woman to learn, whether 
she is called upon, as daughter, sister, wife, or mother, to 
contribute to the happiness of a home. And Mary herself 
was hardly more thoughtful and careful to make others 
happy in their own way, provided that way was innocent, 
than was Bessy hereafter. It was a struggle between her 
and Mary which could be the least selfish, and do the duties 
nearest to them with the most faithfulness and zeal. The 
mother stayed at Southport her full time, and came home 
well and strong. Then Bessy put her arms round her 
mother’s neck, and told her all — and far more severely 
against herself than either the doctor or Jem did, when they 
related the same story afterwards. 


535 


HAND AND HEART 


“ Mother, I should so like to have a great deal of money,” 
said little Tom Fletcher one evening, as he sat on a low 
stool by his mother’s knee. His mother was knitting busily 
by the firelight, and they had both been silent for some 
time. 

“ What would you do with a great deal of money, if you 
had it ? ” 

“ Oh ! I don’t know — I would do a great many things. 
But should not you like to have a great deal of money, 
mother ? ” persisted he. 

“ Perhaps I should,” answered Mrs. Fletcher. “ I am 
like you sometimes, dear, and think that I should be very 
glad of a little more money. But then I don’t think I am 
like you in one thing, for I have always some little plan in 
my mind for which I should want the money. I never wish 
for it just for its own sake.” 

“ Why, mother ! there are so many things we could do if 
we had but money — real good, wise things, I mean.” 

“ And if we have real good, wise things in our head to do, 
which cannot be done without money, I can quite enter into 
the wish for money. But you know, my little boy, you did 
not tell me of any good or wise thing.” 

“ No ! I believe I was not thinking of good or wise things 
just then, but only how much I should like money to do 
what I liked,” answered little Tom ingenuously, looking up 
in his mother’s face. She smiled down upon him, and 
stroked his head. He knew she was pleased with him for 
having told her openly what was passing in his mind. 
Presently he began again — 

536 


Hand and Heart 

“ Mother, if you wanted to do something very good and 
wise, and if you could not do it without money, what should 
you do ? ” 

“ There are two ways of obtaining money for such 
wants : one is by earning ; and the other is by saving. Now 
both are good, because both imply self-denial. Do you 
understand me, Tom ? If you have to earn money, you 
must steadily go on doing what you do not like, perhaps ; 
such as working when you would like to be playing, or in 
bed, or sitting talking with me over the fire. You deny 
yourself these little pleasures ; and that is a good habit in 
itself, to say nothing of the industry and energy you have to 
exert in working. If you save money, you can easily see 
how you exercise self-denial. You do without something you 
wish for in order to possess the money it would have cost. 
Inasmuch as self-denial, energy, and industry are all good 
things, you do well either to earn or to save. But, you see, 
the purpose for which you want the money must be taken 
into consideration. You say, for ‘ something wise and good.’ 
Either earning or saving becomes holy in this case. I must 
then think which will be most consistent with my other 
duties, before I decide whether I will earn or save money.” 

“ I don’t quite know what you mean, mother.” 

“ I will try and explain myself. You know I have to 
keep a little shop, and to try and get employment in knitting 
stockings, and to clean my house, and to mend our clothes, 
and many other things. Now, do you think I should be 
doing my duty if I left you in the evenings, when you come 
home from school, to go out as a waiter at ladies’ parties ? 
I could earn a good deal of money by it, and I could spend 
it well among those who are poorer than I am (such as lame 
Harry) ; but then I should be leaving you alone in the little 
time that we have to be together ; I do not think I should 
be doing right even for our ‘ good and wise purpose ’ to earn 
money, if it took me away from you at nights : do you, 
Tom ? ” 

“ No, indeed ; you never mean to do it, do you, mother ? ” 

537 


Hand and Heart 

“ No,” said she, smiling ; “ at any rate, not till you are 
older. You see at present, then, I cannot earn money, if I 
want a little more than usual to help a sick neighbour. I 
must then try and save money. Nearly every one can do 
that.” 

“ Can we, mother ? We are so careful of everything. 
Ned Dixon calls us stingy : what could we save ? ” 

“ Oh, many and many a little thing. We use many 
things which are luxuries ; which we do not want, but only 
use them for pleasure. Tea and sugar ; butter ; our Sunday’s 
dinner of bacon or meat ; the grey ribbon I bought for my 
bonnet, because you thought it prettier than the black, which 
was cheaper : all these are luxuries. We use very little tea 
or sugar, it is true ; but we might do without any.” 

“ You did do without any, mother, for a long, long time, 
you know, to help widow Black ; it was only for your bad 
headaches.” 

“ Well ! but you see we can save money ; a penny, a 
halfpenny a day, or even a penny a week, would in time 
make a little store ready to be applied to the ‘ good and wise ’ 
purpose, when the time comes. But do you know, my little 
boy, I think we may be considering money too much as the 
only thing required if we want to do a kindness.” 

“If it is not the only thing, it is the chief thing, at any 
rate.” 

“No, love, it is not the chief thing. I should think very 
poorly of that beggar who liked sixpence given with a curse 
(as I have sometimes heard it) better than the kind and 
gentle words some people use in refusing to give. The curse 
sinks deep into the heart ; or, if it does not, it is a proof that 
the poor creature has been made hard before by harsh 
treatment. And mere money can do little to cheer a sore 
heart. It is kindness only that can do this. Now, we have 
all of us kindness in our power. The little child of two years 
old, who can only just totter about, can show kindness.” 

“ Can I, mother ? ” 

“ To be sure, dear ; and you often do, only perhaps not 

538 


Hand and Heart 

quite so often as you might do. Neither do I. But instead 
of wishing for money (of which I don’t think either you or I 
are ever likely to have much), suppose you try to-morrow 
how you can make people happier, by thinking of little 
loving actions of help. Let us try and take for our text, 
* Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I unto 
thee.’ ” 

“ Ay, mother, we will.” 

Must I tell you about little Tom’s “ to-morrow ” ? 

I do not know if little Tom dreamed of what his mother 
and he had been talking about, but I do know that the first 
thing he thought about, when he awoke in the morning, was 
his mother’s saying that he might try how many kind actions 
he could do that day without money ; and he was so 
impatient to begin, that he jumped up and dressed himself, 
although it was more than an hour before his usual time of 
getting up. All the time he kept wondering what a little 
boy like him, only eight years old, could do for other people ; 
till at last he grew so puzzled with inventing occasions for 
showing kindness, that he very wisely determined to think 
no more about it, but learn his lessons very perfectly ; that 
was the first thing he had to do ; and then he would try, 
without too much planning beforehand, to keep himself 
ready to lend a helping hand, or to give a kind word, when 
the right time came. So he screwed himself into a corner, 
out of the way of his mother’s sweeping and dusting, and 
tucked his feet up on the rail of the chair, turned his face to 
the wall, and, in about half-an-hour’s time, he could turn 
round with a light heart, feeling he had learnt his lesson 
well, and might employ his time as he liked till breakfast was 
ready. He looked round the room ; his mother had arranged 
all neatly, and was now gone to the bedroom ; but the coal- 
scuttle and the can for water were empty, and Tom ran 
away to fill them ; and, as he came back with the latter from 
the pump, he saw Ann Jones (the scold of the neighbourhood) 
hanging out her clothes on a line stretched across from side 
to side of the little court, and speaking very angrily and 

539 


Hand and Heart 

loudly to her little girl, who was getting into some mischief 
in the house-place, as her mother perceived through the 
open door. 

“ There never were such plagues as my children are, to be 
sure,” said Ann Jones, as she went into her house, looking 
very red and passionate. Directly after, Tom heard the 
sound of a slap, and then a little child’s cry of pain. 

“ I wonder,” thought he, “ if I durst go and offer to 
nurse and play with little Hester. Ann Jones is fearful 
cross, and just as likely to take me wrong as right ; but she 
won’t box me for mother’s sake ; mother nursed Jemmy 
many, a day through the fever, so she won’t slap me, I think. 
At any rate, I’ll try.” But it was with a beating heart he 
said to the fierce-looking Mrs. Jones, “ Please, may I go and 
play with Hester? Maybe I could keep her quiet while 
you’re busy hanging out clothes.” 

“ What ! and let you go slopping about, I suppose, just 
when I’d made all ready for my master’s breakfast. Thank 
you, but my own children’s mischief is as much as I reckon 
on ; I’ll have none of strange lads’ in my house.” 

“ I did not mean to do mischief or slop,” said Tom, a 
little sadly at being misunderstood in his good intentions. 
“ I only wanted to help.” 

“ If you want to help, lift me up those clothes-pegs, and 
save me stooping ; my back’s broken with it.” 

Tom would much rather have gone to play with and 
amuse little Hester ; but it was true enough that giving Mrs. 
Jones the clothes-pegs as she wanted them would help her 
as much, and perhaps keep her from being so cross with 
her children if they did anything to hinder her. Besides, 
little Hester’s cry had died away, and she was evidently 
occupied in some new pursuit (Tom could only hope that it 
was not in mischief this time) ; so he began to give Ann 
the pegs as she wanted them, and she, soothed by his kind 
help, opened her heart a little to him. 

“ I wonder how it is your mother has trained you up to 
be so handy, Tom ; you’re as good as a girl — better than 

540 


Hand and Heart 

many a girl. I don’t think Hester in three years’ ti. 
be as thoughtful as you. There ! ** (as a fresh & 
reached them from the little ones inside the house), ‘ 
are at some mischief again ; but I’ll teach ’em,” said 
getting down from her stool in a fresh access of passion. 

“ Let me go,” said Tom, in a begging voice, for he dread 
the cruel sound of another slap. “ I’ll lift the basket of peg 
on to a stool, so that you need not stoop ; and I’ll keep tht 
little ones safe out of mischief till you’re done. Do let me 
go, missus.” 

With some grumblings at losing his help, she let him go 
into the house-place. He found Hester, a little girl of five, 
and two younger ones. They had been fighting for a knife, 
and in the struggle, the second, Johnnie, had cut his finger 
— not very badly, but he was frightened at the sight of the 
blood; and Hester, who might have helped, and who was 
really sorry, stood sullenly aloof, dreading' the scolding her 
mother always gave her if either of the little ones hurt 
themselves while under her care. 

“ Hester,” said Tom, “ will you get me some cold water, 
please ? it will stop the bleeding better than anything. I 
dare say you can find me a basin to hold it.” 

Hester trotted off, pleased at Tom’s confidence in her 
power. When the bleeding was partly stopped, he asked 
her to find him a bit of rag, and she scrambled under the 
dresser for a little piece she had hidden there the day before. 
Meanwhile, Johnny ceased crying, he was so interested in 
all the preparation for dressing his little wound, and so 
much pleased to find himself an object of so much attention 
and consequence. The baby, too, sat on the floor, gravely 
wondering at the commotion ; and, thus busily occupied, 
they were quiet and out of mischief till Ann Jones came in, 
and, having hung out her clothes, and finished that morn- 
ing’s piece of work, she was ready to attend to her children 
in her rough, hasty kind of way. 

“ Well ! I’m sure, Tom, you’ve tied it up as neatly as I 
could have done. I wish I’d always such an one as you to 

54i 


Hand - and Heart 

,er the children ; but you must run off now, lad ; your 
ar was calling you as I came in, and I said I’d send 
Good-bye, and thank you.” 

As Tom was going away, the baby, sitting in square 
*vity on the floor, but somehow conscious of Tom's gentle 
alpful ways, put up her mouth to be kissed ; and he stooped 
iown in answer to the little gesture, feeling very happy, and 
very full of love and kindliness. 

After breakfast, his mother told him it was school-time, 
and he must set off, as she did not like him to run in out of 
breath and flurried, just when the schoolmaster was going 
to begin ; but she wished him to come in decently and in 
order, with quiet decorum, and thoughtfulness as to what 
he was going to do. So Tom got his cap and his bag, and 
went off with a light heart, which I suppose made his foot- 
steps light, for he found himself above half way to school while 
it wanted yet a quarter to the time. So he slackened his pace, 
and looked about him a little more than he had been doing. 
There was a little girl on the other side of the street carrying 
a great, big basket, and lugging along a little child just able 
to walk, but who, I suppose, was tired, for he was crying 
pitifully, and sitting down every two or three steps. Tom 
ran across the street, for, as perhaps you have found out, 
he was very fond of babies, and could not bear to hear 
them cry. 

“ Little girl, what is he crying about ? Does he want to 
be carried ? I’ll take him up, and carry him as far as I go 
alongside of you,” 

So saying, Tom was going to suit the action to the word ; 
but the baby did not choose that any one should carry him 
but his sister, and refused Tom’s kindness. Still he could 
carry the heavy basket of potatoes for the little girl, which 
he did as far as their road lay together, when she thanked 
him, and bade him good-bye, and said she could manage 
very well now, her home was so near. So Tom went into 
school very happy and peaceful, and had a good character 
to take home to his mother for that morning’s lesson. 

542 


Hand and Heart 

It happened that this very day was the weekly halt 
holiday, so that Tom had many hours unoccupied that 
afternoon. Of course, his first employment after dinner 
was to learn his lessons for the next day ; and then, when 
he had put his books away, he began to wonder what he 
should do next. 

He stood lounging against the door, wishing all manner 
of idle wishes ; a habit he was apt to fall into. He wished 
he were the little boy who lived opposite, who had three 
brothers ready to play with him on half -holidays ; he wished 
he were Sam Harrison, whose father had taken him one day 
a trip by the railroad ; he wished he were the little boy who 
always went with the omnibuses : it must be so pleasant to go 
riding about on the step, and to see so many people ; he wished 
he were a sailor, to sail away to the countries where grapes 
grew wild, and monkeys and parrots were to be had for the 
catching. Just as he was wishing himself the little Prince 
of Wales, to drive about in a goat-carriage, and wondering 
if he should not feel very shy with the three great ostrich 
feathers always niddle-noddling on his head, for people to 
know him by, his mother came from washing up the dishes, 
and saw him deep in the reveries little boys and girls are 
apt to fall into when they are the only children in a house. 

“ My dear Tom,” said she, “ why don’t you go out, and 
make the most of this fine afternoon ? ” 

“ Oh, mother,” answered he (suddenly recalled to the 
fact that he was little Tom Fletcher, instead of the Prince 
of Wales, and consequently feeling a little bit flat), “ it is 
so dull going out by myself. I have no one to play with. 
Can’t you go with me, mother — just this once, into the 
fields ? ” 

Poor Mrs. Fletcher heartily wished she could gratify this 
very natural desire of her little boy ; but she had the shop 
to mind, and many a little thing besides to do ; it was im- 
possible. But however much she might regret a thing, she 
was too faithful to repine. So, after a moment’s thought, 
she said cheerfully, “ Go into the fields for a walk, and see 

543 


Hand and Heart 

iow many wild flowers you can bring me home and I’ll 
get down father’s jug for you to put them in when you 
come back.” 

“ But, mother, there are so few pretty flowers near a 
town ”, said Tom, a little unwillingly, for it was a coming 
down from being Prince of Wales, and he was not yet quite 
reconciled to it. 

“ Oh dear ! there are a great many if you’ll only look for 
them. I dare say you’ll make me up as many as twenty 
different kinds.” 

“Will you reckon daisies, mother ? ” 

“To be sure ; they are just as pretty as any.” 

“ Oh, if you’ll reckon such as them, I dare say I can 
bring you more than twenty.” 

So off he ran ; his mother watching him till he was out 
of sight, and then she returned to her work. In about two 
hours he came back, his pale cheeks looking quite rosy, and 
his eyes quite bright. His country walk, taken with cheerful 
spirits, had done him all the good his mother desired, and 
had restored his usually even, happy temper. 

“ Look, mother, here are three-and- twenty different 
kinds ; you said I might count all, so I have even counted 
this thing like a nettle with lilac flowers, and this little 
common blue thing.” 

“ * Robin-run-in-the-hedge ’ is its name,” said his mother. 
“ It’s very pretty if you look at it close. One, two, three ” 
— she counted them all over, and there really were three- 
and-twenty. She went to reach down the best jug. 

“ Mother,” said little Tom, “ do you like them very 
much?” 

“ Yes, very much,” said she, not understanding his 
meaning. He was silent, and gave a little sigh. “ Why, 
my dear ? ” 

“ Oh, only — it does not signify if you like them very 
much ; but I thought how nice it would be to take them tc 
lame Harry, who can never walk so far as the fields, and 
can hardly know what summer is like, I think.” 

544 


Hand and Heart 

“ Oh, that will be very nice ; I am glad you thought of it.” 

Lame Harry was sitting by himself, very patiently, in a 
neighbouring cellar. He was supported by his daughter’s 
earnings; but as she worked in a factory, he was much 
alone. 

If the bunch of flowers had looked pretty in the fields, 
they looked ten times as pretty in the cellar to which they 
were now carried. Lame Harry’s eyes brightened up with 
pleasure at the sight ; and he began to talk of the times 
long ago, when he was a little boy in the country, and had 
a comer of his father’s garden to call his own, and grow 
lad’s-love and wallflower in. Little Tom put them in water 
for him, and put the jug on the table by him ; on which 
his daughter had placed the old Bible, worn with much 
reading, although treated with careful reverence. It was 
lying open, with Harry’s horn spectacles put in to mark the 
place. 

“ I reckon my spectacles are getting worn out ; they are 
not so clear as they used to be ; they are dim-like before my 
eyes, and it hurts me to read long together,” said Harry. 
“ It’s a sad miss to me. I never thought the time long 
when I could read ; but now I keep wearying for the day to 
be over, though the nights, when I cannot sleep for my legs 
paining me, are almost as bad. However, it’s the Lord’s 
will.” 

“ Would you like me — I cannot read very well aloud, but 
I’d do my best, if you’d like me to read a bit to you. I’ll 
just run home and get my tea, and be back directly.” And 
off Tom ran. 

He found it very pleasant reading aloud to lame Harry ; 
for the old man had so much to say that was worth listen- 
ing to, and was so glad of a listener, that I think there was 
as much talking as reading done that evening. But the 
Bible served as a text-book to their conversation ; for in a 
long life old Harry had seen and heard so much, which he 
had connected with events, or promises, or precepts, con- 
tained in the Scriptures, that it was quite curious to find 

545 2 N 


Hand and Heart 

how everything was brought in and dove-tailed, as an 
illustration of what they were reading. 

When Tom got up to go away, lame Harry gave him 
many thanks, and told him he would not sleep the worse 
for having made an old man’s evening so pleasant. Tom 
came home in high self-satisfaction. “ Mother,” said he, 
“it’s all very true what you said about the good that may 
be done without money : I’ve done many pieces of good 
to-day without a farthing. First,” said he, taking hold of 
his little finger, “ I helped Ann Jones with hanging out her 
clothes when she was ” 

His mother had been listening while she turned over the 
pages of the New Testament which lay by her ; and now, 
having found what she wanted, she put her arm gently 
around his waist, and drew him fondly towards her. He 
saw her finger put under one passage, and read — 

“ Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.” 

He was silent in a moment. 

Then his mother spoke in her soft low voice : “ Dearest 
Tom, though I don’t want us to talk about it, as if you had 
been doing more than just what you ought, I am glad you 
have seen the truth of what I said : how far more may be 
done by the loving heart than by mere money-giving ; and 
every one may have the loving heart.” 

I have told you of one day of little Tom’s life, when he 
was eight years old, and lived with his mother. I must 
now pass over a year, and tell you of a very different kind 
of life he had then to lead. His mother had never been 
very strong, and had had a good deal of anxiety ; at last 
she was taken ill, and soon felt that there was no hope 
for her recovery. For a long time the thought of leaving 
her little boy was a great distress to her, apd a great trial to 
her faith. But God strengthened her, and sent his peace 
into her soul ; and before her death she was content to leave 
her precious child in His hands, who is a Father to the 
fatherless, and defendeth the cause of the widow. 

When she felt that she had not many more days to live, 

546 


Hand and Heart 

she sent for her husband’s brother, who lived in a town not 
many miles off ; and gave her little Tom in charge to him 
to bring up. 

“ There are a few pounds in the savings-bank — I don’t 
know how many exactly— and the furniture and bit of stock 
in the shop. Perhaps they would be enough to bring him 
up to be a joiner, like his father before him.” 

She spoke feebly, and with many pauses. Her brother- 
in-law, though a rough kind of man, wished to do all he 
could to make her feel easy in her last moments, and, 
touched with the reference to his dead brother, promised all 
she required. 

“ I’ll take him back with me after ” — the funeral, he was 
going to say, but he stopped. She smiled gently, fully 
understanding his meaning. 

“We shall, maybe, not be so tender with him as you’ve 
been ; but I’ll see he comes to no harm. It will be a good 
thing for him to rough it a bit with other children — he’s too 
nesh for a boy ; but I’ll pay them if they aren’t kind to him 
in the long run, never fear.” 

Though this speech was not exactly what she liked, there 
was quite enough of good feeling in it to make her thankful 
for such a protector and friend for her boy. And so, thank- 
ful for the joys she had had, and thankful for the sorrows 
which had taught her meekness, thankful for life, and thankful 
for death, she died. 

Her brother-in-law arranged all as she had wished. After 
the quiet simple funeral was over, he took Tom by the hand, 
and set off on the six-mile walk to his home. Tom had 
cried till he could cry no more, but sobs came quivering up 
from his heart every now and then, as he passed some well- 
remembered cottage, or thorn -bush, or tree on the road. 
His uncle was very sorry for him, but did not know what to 
say, or how to comfort him. 

“ Now mind, lad, thou com’st to me if thy cousins are 
o’er hard upon thee. Let me hear if they misuse thee, and 
I’ll give it them.” 


547 


Hand and Heart 

Tom shrank from the idea that this gave him of the 
cousins, whose companionship he had, until then, been 
looking forward to as a pleasure. He was not reassured 
when, after threading several streets and by-ways, they came 
into a court of dingy-looking houses, and his uncle opened 
the door of one, from which the noise of loud, if not angry 
voices was heard. 

A tall large woman was whirling one child out of her 
way with a rough movement of her arm ; while she was 
scolding a boy a little older than Tom, who stood listening 
sullenly to her angry words. 

“ I’ll tell father of thee, I will,” said she ; and, turning to 
Uncle John, she began to pour out her complaints against 
Jack, without taking any notice of Little Tom, who clung to 
his uncle’s hand as to a protector in the scene of violence, 
into which he had entered. 

“ Well, well, wife ! I’ll leather Jack the next time I 
catch him letting the water out of the pipe; but now get 
this lad and me some tea, for we’re weary and tired.” 

His aunt seemed to wish Jack might be leathered now, 
and to be angry with her husband for not revenging her 
injuries ; for an injury it was that the boy had done her in 
letting the water all run off, and that on the very eve of the 
washing day. The mother grumbled as she left off mopping 
the wet floor, and went to the fire to stir it up ready for 
the kettle, without a word of greeting to her little nephew, 
or of welcome to her husband. On the contrary, she com- 
plained of the trouble of getting tea ready afresh, just when 
she had put slack on the fire, and had no water in the house 
to fill the kettle with. Her husband grew angry, and Tom 
was frightened to hear his uncle speaking sharply. 

“ If I can’t have a cup of tea in my own house without 
all this ado, I’ll go to the 1 Spread Eagle,’ and take Tom 
with me. They’ve a bright fire there at all times, choose how 
they manage it ; and no scolding wives. Come, Tom, let’s 
be off.” 

Jack had been trying to scrape acquaintance with his 
548 


Hand and Heart 

cousin by winks and grimaces behind his mother’s back, and 
now made a sign of drinking out of an imaginary glass. But 
Tom clung to his uncle, and softly pulled him down again 
on his chair, from which he had risen to go to the public- 
house. 

“ If you please, ma’am,” said he, sadly frightened of his 
aunt, “ I think I could find the pump, if you’d let me try.” 

She muttered something like an acquiescence; so Tom 
took up the kettle, and, tired as he was, went out to the 
pump. Jack, who had done nothing but mischief all day, 
stood amazed, but at last settled that his cousin was a 
“ softy.” 

When Tom came back, he tried to blow the fire with the 
broken bellows, and at last the water boiled, and the tea was 
made. “ Thou’rt a rare lad, Tom,” said his uncle. “ I 
wonder when our Jack will be of as much use.” 

This comparison did not please either Jack or his mother, 
who liked to keep to herself the privilege of directing their 
father’s dissatisfaction with his children. Tom felt their 
want of kindliness towards him ; and, now that he had 
nothing to do but rest and eat, he began to feel very sad, 
and his eyes kept filling with tears, which he brushed away 
with the back of his hand, not wishing to have them seen. 
But his uncle noticed him. 

“ Thou had’st better have had a glass at the ‘ Spread 
Eagle,’ ” said he compassionately. 

“ No ; I only am rather tired. May I go to bed ? ” said 
he, longing for a good cry unobserved under the bed-clothes. 

“ Where’s he to sleep ? ” asked the husband of the wife. 

“Nay,” said she, still offended on Jack’s account, “ that’s 
thy look-out. He’s thy flesh and blood, not mine.” 

“ Come, wife,” said Uncle John, “ he’s an orphan, poor 
chap. An orphan is kin to every one.” 

She was softened directly, for she had much kindness in 
her, although this evening she had been so much put out. 

“ There’s no place for him but with Jack and Dick. 
We’ve the baby, and the other three are packed close enough.” 

549 


Hand and Heart 

She took Tom up to the little back room, and stopped to 
talk with him for a minute or two ; for her husband’s words 
had smitten her heart, and she was sorry for the ungracious 
reception she had given Tom at first. 

“ Jack and Dick are never in bed till we come, and it’s 
work enough to catch them then on fine evenings,” said she, 
as she took the candle away. 

Tom tried to speak to God as his mother had taught 
him, out of the fulness of his little heart, which was heavy 
enough that night. He tried to think how she would have 
wished him to speak and to do, and, when he felt puzzled 
with the remembrance of the scene of disorder and anger 
which he had seen, he earnestly prayed God would make 
and keep clear his path before him. And then he fell 
asleep. 

He had had a long dream of other and happier days, and 
had thought he was once more taking a Sunday evening 
walk with his mother, when he was roughly wakened up by 
his cousins. 

“ I say, lad, you’re lying right across the bed. You must 
get up, and let Dick and me come in, and then creep into 
the space that’s left.” 

Tom got up dizzy and half awake. His cousins got into 
bed, and then squabbled about the largest share. It ended 
in a kicking match, during which Tom stood shivering by 
the bedside. 

“ I’m sure we’re pinched enough as it is,” said Dick at 
last. “ And why they’ve put Tom in with us I can’t think. 
But I’ll not stand it. Tom shan’t sleep with us. He may 
lie on the floor if he likes. I’ll not hinder him.” 

He expected an opposition from Tom, and was rather 
surprised when he heard the little fellow quietly lie down, 
and cover himself as well as he could with his clothes. 
After some more quarrelling, Jack and Dick fell asleep. 
But in the middle of the night Dick awoke, and heard by 
Tom’s breathing that he was still awake, and was crying 
gently. 


55o 


Hand and Heart 

“What! molly-coddle, crying for a softer bed?” asked 
Dick. 

“ Oh, no ; I don’t care for that — if — oh ! if mother were 
but alive,” little Tom sobbed aloud. 

“ I say,” said Dick, after a pause, “ there’s room at my 
back, if you’ll creep in. There ! don’t be afraid. Why, how 
cold you are, lad ! " 

Dick was sorry for his cousin’s loss, but could not speak 
about it. However, his kind tone sank into Tom’s heart, 
and he fell asleep once more. 

The three boys all got up at the same time in the 
morning, but were not inclined to talk. Jack and Dick put 
on their clothes as fast as possible, and ran downstairs ; but 
this was quite a different way of going on to what Tom had 
been accustomed. He looked about for some kind of basin 
or mug to wash in ; there was none — not even a jug of 
water in the room. He slipped on a few necessary clothes, 
and went downstairs, found a pitcher, and went off to the 
pump. His cousins, who were playing in the court, laughed 
at him, and would not tell him where the soap was kept : 
he had to look some minutes before he could find it. Then 
he went back to the bedroom ; but, on entering it from the 
fresh air, the smell was so oppressive that he could not 
endure it. Three people had been breathing the air all 
night, and had used up every particle many times over and 
over again ; and each time that it had been sent out from 
the lungs, it was less fit than before to be breathed again. 
They had not felt how poisonous it was while they stayed in 
it ; they had only felt tired and unrefreshed, with a dull 
headache ; but, now that Tom came back again into it, he 
could not mistake its 1 oppressive nature. He went to the 
window to try and open it. It was what people call a 
“ Yorkshire light,” where, you know, one-half has to be 
pushed on one side. It was very stiff, for it had not been 
opened for a long time. Tom pushed against it with all his 
might ; at length it gave way with a jerk ; and the shake 
sent out a cracked pane, which fell on the floor in a. hundred 

55i 


Hand and Heart 

little bits. Tom was sadly frightened when he saw what he 
had done. He would have been sorry to have done mischief 
at any time, but he had seen enough of his aunt the evening 
before to find out that she was sharp, and hasty, and cross ; 
and it was hard to have to begin the first day in his new 
home by getting into a scrape. He sat down on the bedside 
and began to cry. But the morning air blowing in upon 
him, refreshed him, and made him feel stronger. He grew 
braver as he washed himself in the pure, cold water. “ She 
can’t be cross with me longer than a day ; by to-night it 
will be all over ; I can bear it for a day.” 

Dick came running upstairs for something he had 
forgotten. 

“ My word, Tom ! but you’ll catch it ! ” exclaimed he, 
when he saw the broken window. He was half pleased at 
the event, and half sorry for Tom. “ Mother did so beat 
Jack last week for throwing a stone right through the 
window downstairs. He kept out of the way till night, but 
she was on the look-out for him, and as soon as she saw 
him, she caught hold of him and gave it him. Eh ! Tom, I 
would not be you for a deal ! ” 

Tom began to cry again at this account of his aunt’s 
anger ; Dick became more and more sorry for him. 

“ I’ll tell thee what ; we’ll go down and say it was a lad 
in yon back-yard throwing stones, and that one went smack 
through the window. I’ve got one in my pocket that will 
just do to show.” 

“ No,” said Tom, suddenly stopping crying; “ I dare not 
do that.” 

“ Daren’t ! Why, you’ll have to dare much more if you 
go down and face mother without some such story.” 

“ No ! I shan’t. I shan’t have to dare God’s anger. 
Mother taught me to fear that ; she said I need never be 
really afraid of aught else. Just be quiet, Dick, while I say 
my prayers.” 

Dick watched his little cousin kneel down by the bed, 
and bury his face in the clothes ; he did not say any set 

552 


Hand and Heart 

prayer (which Dick was accustomed to think was the only 
way of praying), but Tom seemed, by the low murmuring 
which Dick heard, to be talking to a dear friend]; and 
though at first he sobbed and cried, as he asked for help 
and strength, yet when he got up, his face looked calm and 
bright, and he spoke quietly as he said to Dick, “ Now I’m 
ready to go and tell aunt." 

Aunt meanwhile had missed her pitcher and her soap, 
and was in no good-tempered mood when Tom came to 
make his confession. She had been hindered in her 
morning’s work by his taking her things away; and now 
he was come to tell her of the pane being broken and that 
it must be mended, and money must go, all for a child’s 
nonsense. 

She gave him (as he had been led to expect) one or two 
very sharp blows. Jack and Dick looked on with curiosity, 
to see how he would take it ; Jack, at any rate, expecting a 
hearty crying from “ softy " (Jack himself had cried loudly 
at his last beating) ; but Tom never shed a tear, though his 
face did go very red, and his mouth did grow set with the pain. 
But what struck the boys more even than his being “ hard ” 
in bearing such blows, was his quietness afterwards. He 
did not grumble loudly, as Jack would have done, nor did he 
turn sullen, as was Dick’s custom ; but the minute after- 
wards he was ready to run an errand for his aunt ; nor did he 
make any mention of the hard blows, when his uncle came 
in to breakfast, as his aunt had rather expected he would. 
She was glad he did not, for she knew her husband would 
have been displeased to know how early she had begun to 
beat his orphan nephew. So she almost felt grateful to 
Tom for his silence, and certainly began to be sorry she had 
struck him so hard. 

Poor Tom ! he did not know that his cousins were 
beginning to respect him, nor that his aunt was learning to 
like him ; and he felt very lonely and desolate that first 
morning. He had nothing to do. Jack went to work at 
the factory; and Dick went grumbling to school. Tom 

553 


Hand and Heart 

wondered if he was to go to school again, but he did not like 
to ask. He sat on a little stool, as much out of his terrible 
aunt’s way as he could. She had her youngest child, a little 
girl of about a year and a half old, crawling about on the 
floor. Tom longed to play with her ; but he was not sure 
how far his aunt would like it. But he kept smiling at her, 
and doing every little thing he could to attract her attention 
and make her come to him. At last she was coaxed to 
come upon his knee. His aunt saw it ; and, though she did 
not speak, she did not look displeased. He did everything 
he could think of to amuse little Annie ; and her mother was 
very glad to have her attended to. When Annie grew 
sleepy, she still kept fast hold of one of Tom’s fingers in 
her little, round, soft hand, and he began to know the 
happy feeling of loving somebody again. Only the night 
before, when his cousins had made him get out of bed, 
he had wondered if he should live to be an old man, 
and never have anybody to love all that long time ; but now 
his heart felt quite warm to the little thing that lay on 
his lap. 

“ She’ll tire you, Tom,” said her mother ; “ you’d better 
let me put her down in the cot.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” said he, “ please don’t ! I like so much to 
have her here.” He never moved, though she lay very 
heavy on his arm, for fear of wakening her. 

When she did rouse up, his aunt said, “ Thank you, Tom. 
I’ve got my work done rarely, with you for a nurse. Now 
take a run in the yard, and play yourself a bit.” 

His aunt was learning something, and Tom was teaching, 
though they would both have been very much surprised to 
hear it. Whenever, in a family, every one is selfish, and 
(as it is called) “ stands up for his own rights,” there are no 
feelings of gratitude ; the gracefulness of “ thanks ” is never 
called for ; nor can there be any occasion for thoughfulness 
for others when those others are sure to get the start in 
thinking for themselves, and taking care of number one. 
Tom’s aunt had never had to remind Jack or Dick to go out 

554 


Hand and Heart 

to play. They were ready enough to see after their own 
pleasures. 

Well ! dinner-time came, and all the family gathered to 
the meal. It seemed to be a scramble who should be helped 
first, and cry out for the best pieces. Tom looked very red. 
His aunt, in her new-born liking for him, helped him early 
to what she thought he would like. But he did not begin to 
eat. It had been his mother’s custom to teach her little son 
to say a simple “ grace ” with her before they began their 
dinner. He expected his uncle to follow the same obser- 
vance ; and waited. Then he felt very hot and shy ; but, 
thinking that it was right to say it, he put away his shyness, 
and very quietly, but very solemnly, said the old accustomed 
sentence of thanksgiving. Jack burst out laughing when he 
had done ; for which Jack’s father gave him a sharp rap and 
a sharp word, which made him silent through the rest of the 
dinner. But, excepting Jack, who was angry, I think all 
the family were the happier for having listened reverently (if 
with some surprise) to Tom’s thanksgiving. They were not 
an ill-disposed set of people, but wanted thoughtfulness in 
their everyday life : that sort of thoughtfulness which gives 
order to a home, and makes a wise and holy spirit of love 
the groundwork of order. 

From that first day Tom never went back in the regard 
he began then to win. He was useful to his aunt, and 
patiently bore her hasty ways, until for very shame she left 
off being hasty with one who was always so meek and mild. 
His uncle sometimes said he was more like a girl than a 
boy, as was to be looked for from being brought up for so 
many years by a woman ; but that was the greatest fault he 
ever had to find with him ; and, in spite of it, he really 
respected him for the very qualities which are most truly 
“ manly ; ” for the courage with which he dared to do what 
was right, and the quiet firmness with which he bore many 
kinds of pain. As for little Annie, her friendship and favour 
and love were the delight of Tom’s heart. He did not know 
how much the others were growing to like him, but Annie 

555 


Hand and Heart 

showed it in every way, and he loved her in return most 
dearly. Dick soon found out how useful Tom could be to 
him in his lessons ; for, though older than his cousin, Master 
Dick was a regular dunce, and had never even wished to 
learn till Tom came ; and, long before Jack could be brought 
to acknowledge it, Dick maintained that “ Tom had a great 
deal of pluck in him, though it was not of Jack’s kind.” 

Now I shall jump another year, and tell you a very little 
about the household twelve months after Tom had entered 
it. I said above that his aunt had learned to speak less 
crossly to one who was always gentle after her scoldings. 
By-and-by her ways to all became less hasty and passionate, 
for she grew ashamed of speaking to any one in an angry 
way before Tom ; he always looked so sad and sorry to hear 
her. She has also spoken to him sometimes about his 
mother ; at first because she thought he would like it ; but 
latterly because she became really interested to hear of her 
ways ; and Tom, being an only child, and his mother’s 
friend and companion, has been able to tell her of many 
household arts of comfort, which, coming quite unconscious 
of any purpose, from the lips of a child, have taught her 
many things which she would have been too proud to learn 
from an older person. Her husband is softened by the 
additional cleanliness and peace of his home. He does not 
now occasionally take refuge in a public-house, to get out of 
the way of noisy children, an unswept hearth, and a scolding 
wife. Once, when Tom was ill for a day or two, his uncle 
missed the accustomed grace, and began to say it himself. 
He is now the person to say “ Silence, boys ”, and then to 
ask the blessing on the meal. It makes them gather round 
the table, instead of sitting down here and there in the 
comfortless, unsociable way they used to do. Tom and 
Dick go to school together now, and Dick is getting on 
famously, and will soon be able to help his next brother 
over his lessor^. as. Tornhas li^b^d him. 

Even J ack Ife^-oeen »eaiw to^cknowledge that Tom has 
“ pluck ” in him ; and as “ pluck ” in Jack’s mind is a short 

556 


Hand and Heart 

way of summing up all the virtues, he has lately become 
very fond of his cousin. Tom does not think about happi- 
ness, but is happy ; and I think we may hope that he, and 
the household among whom he is adopted, will go “ from 
strength to strength.” 

Now do you not see how much happier this family are 
from the one circumstance of a little child’s coming among 
them ? Could money have made one-tenth part of this real 
and increasing happiness ? I think you will all say no. 
And yet Tom was no powerful person ; he was not clever ; 
he was very friendless at first ; but he was loving and good ; 
and on those two qualities, which any of us may have if we 
try, the blessing of God lies in rich abundance. 


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